My Father and I.

My scram and I started walking down the long, black, shiny wall. As we got closer are steps were slower. We moved with hesitation. My heart began to bother faster, and I felt an ache in the pit of my stomach. My father squeezed my hand as we approached a statue of three men lunge in bronze. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial or The Wall lay rightful(prenominal) beyond, but we found ourselves unable to move. My father stood staring at the statue, afraid to go on.

Between silences, he spoke about the fabulous detailed work of the sculpture, such as the towel wrapped around the neck of one of the soldiers, the M-60 machine gun and the soldiers bandoleers of ammunition. I knew his thoughts were in a diametric time and a different place. The memories of the war were beginning to replace the days reality.

For most of my life I have heard the stories of my fathers experiences in Vietnam. He was drafted by the phalanx in 1967 and served in the infantry. While in the field he was engaged in numerous fire fights and combat situations and incapacitated dickens thirds of his company during a four-day siege. When he returned home he encountered public opposition to the war and its Veterans.



In actuality my father fought two wars, one at home and one abroad.

All of this pain that he kept suppressed was spilling over as we at closing began our descent to The Wall. He held my hand and I could emotional state him tremble. I turned to him and I saw he was crying. His tears were for friends who died and lives wasted.

I took a piece of paper and I scratched the name of a soldier my father knew off the wall. Names, row upon...

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