The Wall
By Xanthe
Vietnam War Memorial, Washington DC.
December, 1999
It was a bitterly cold night. The man parked his car and got out, his breath clouding the air as he walked across the grass, frost crunching underfoot. He pulled his coat collar up around his neck to ward off the chill wind, but despite the cold he didn't begrudge the fact that this particular anniversary fell in December. One night every year spent shivering was still one more night than his fallen comrades had been granted.
His pace slowed as he reached the implacable black granite of the Wall, the shiny surface reflecting the moonlight, and his own image. He paused, and ran a finger over the smooth granite, feeling the engraved names beneath his fingertips. Each one had been a real person - somebody's son. He walked slowly along the Wall, his head bowed, then he turned, and walked back again. He glanced at his watch, and looked around, clearly expecting someone.
A frown creased his wide forehead, and he went to sit down on a nearby bench, taking with him the bag he had brought from the car. After half an hour he glanced at his watch again, and shook his head, his dark eyes concerned.
An hour later, he decided that he couldn't wait any longer. He opened the bag, and removed the candles - one for each lost comrade - and wondered if he should have brought an extra one this year. Stifling that thought, he straightened, and walked back to the Wall. He knew where each name was by heart - years of doing this had etched their positions in his memory. He placed the candles on the ground by the sections of the wall where his comrades' names were engraved. The candles sat in a little cluster, huddled together - his brothers in arms had all fallen on the same day. United in life by their energy, and youth, their names were linked forever in death. He lit each candle carefully, then stepped back. He was not a sentimental man but he was a dutiful one, and this was a duty that he fulfilled, every year, without fail - and usually with company.
He kept his lonely vigil all night. Waiting. He watched as each candle burned down to nothing, the faint, flickering lights melting in the night as those they honored had done so many years ago, their lives wiped out in three minutes of chaos that had changed his life, and robbed them of theirs. He didn't sleep, or eat, throughout that long night. He just sat, his black gloved hands resting in his lap, his mind far away. The tip of his nose was frozen, and his lungs ached from breathing in the cold air for so long. He was reminded of a poem, as he endured his lonely vigil. How did it go? Is there anybody there? said the Traveler, knocking on the moonlit door...
The man grunted, trying to remember the words, but recalling instead only the sense of melancholy and grief that the poem evoked. The cold seeped into his bones, causing at least two old wounds to ache - both of them legacies from Vietnam. He glanced over at the black shadow that was the Wall, and saw the first faint rays of the sun lightening the darkness. Dawn. He looked at his watch one last time.
"Tell them I came, and no one answered, that I kept my word," he quoted. Then he turned on his heel, and walked back to his car.
Alone.
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