The Healing Wall

I.

I ignored the Wall -

for a long time

I had managed to keep out unwanted reminders

of the memories of what I saw and did and felt

and the Wall threatened to violate this self-truce.

For a while, I refused to go to the Wall.

I came close, but could not bring myself to go down

into that black hole -

So I stood there alone, on the perimeter

of the large descending block of black, cold stone,

and watched from my vantage point on the hill above.

Concealed by the autumn shadows,

hands pocketed, I turned my back and walked away,

mumbling to myself in a voice so low

even I couldn’t hear what I was saying,

“Not today, I cannot do this today.”

II.

I visited the Wall.

One evening in the late summer of the year,

when the cool winds blew across the Mall and the

early evening sun was crisp, I went to the Wall, again.

I stood where I had stood before but refused to go,

And without ever deciding,

without ever giving consent

I found myself moving toward it,

pulled by some force I could not see,

drawn by memories I could no longer deny.

I began the slow descent into the dark hole,

not wanting to but needing to go back into

what I had spent twenty-five years trying to forget.

At first tentative, I stood next to the first point of the Wall-

looking down the long descent of widening black granite,

wanting to turn back, but I had committed,

At first tentative, I stood next to the first point of the Wall-

looking down the long descent of widening black granite,

wanting to turn back, but I had committed,

this time I needed to go.

I walked down the path, head down,

unable to look up at the Wall -

afraid I would see a name, recognize a name, any name.

Perhaps a name I had seen before, a death I knew before

his family knew. Perhaps a friend, someone who died and I didn’t know.

I couldn’t look but I could feel its presence -

As I descended, it cast a silent, shadow, growing on me.

As the sun went down, the darkness deepened.

I stopped where the walk meets in the middle,

joining the two parts of the Wall together -

the deepest part of the Memorial

and slowly, my eyes began their climb up the Wall.

Groove by groove, name by name,

I saw what I knew would be there -

names - hundreds and thousands of names

carved into the cold hard flesh of that stone -

first names and last names

carved by the trauma and devastation of the bombs

and the mines and the sniper fire -

and the yells and the screams

of young men dying and not knowing why.

I heard the haunting sound of the death

of all of those soldiers whose

names I had seen and passed on to those places back

home who would receive the telegram

“We regret to inform you. . .”

I saw the names, blurred as they were,

I saw them and I could not move.

III.

I touched the Wall - down in the deep hole where I stood,

I moved forward - not wanting to

but needing to feel it ,

needing to trace the edges of at least one name -

not to remember, but to forget.

I touched the smooth stone, gingerly at first, with one finger

feeling the contrast between that and the rough place where the

stone had been violated by the name carved into it -

And, in the stillness of that moment

(I remember the stillness, particularly the stillness),

I did what all who go there must do,

I put my whole hand, palm down, against the stone -

first one hand and then the other, softly first,

Then pressing my palm harder against the Wall until

The full weight of my body leaned against it.

Braced by the stone, held up by its quiet, dignified, strength,

I became connected to the Wall,

connected to everything that happened, everything I had felt,

everything I had avoided for over twenty-five years.

Then

...