A story paints a series of
pictures in the mind of the listener
Colorful, descriptive
pictures.
But if black is the absence
of all light,
And therefore the absence
of any color,
How is it that the stories
on this black wall are the most vivid?
The shiny granite portrays
the reflection of his face against the wall,
But that is not what he
sees.
He sees the flash of
explosions.
He sees the blood-stained
Earth.
He sees his friend, alive,
looking back at him from the black wall.
He brought with him a flag,
folded, as they are at military funerals.
He presses the flag against
the wall,
Awarding it to his fallen
comrade.
He maintains poise, staring
back at the wall,
Until he can no longer sustain
the façade he was taught to uphold in battle.
His head lowers, visually
in pain,
But his hand remains,
holding the flag in place for his friend.
A stranger sees him,
Without saying a word he
extends a hand,
A normally negligible
gesture.
But, terrifically like black
wall itself,
This small gesture reveals
so much.
The stranger feels the
tough, camouflage uniform,
He feels the heaving
shoulders,
He feels the agony.
The stranger captures the
moment with a photograph,
Not for attention, nor
personal desire,
But rather for the chance
for other people,
The chance to tell a story,
As significant as what the
man in his grasp was experiencing.
Never once did he look back
at the stranger,
It was unnecessary.
A few minutes pass,
The stranger needs to
leave,
So he does.
The man remains,
Eventually his gaze returns
to the black wall,
Absorbing the other 58,271
names,
Today would be someone’s
birthday,
Today would be someone’s
date of death.
He wished he could present
a flag,
To every soldier who died
years ago today.
He decided he had mourned
and grieved enough for one day,
For a soldier, perhaps,
But not for a veteran.
Because he was no longer on
the battlefield,
He would break the façade,
For those who could not,
Because they were fighting,
At that very moment.
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