Title: Facing It
Author: Catch
Rating: PG
Summary: Harm makes a visit to the wall.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. DPB owns them. Blah, Blah...
Spoilers: Nothing specific, but everything's fair game.
AN: This is just a short piece inspired by the poem of the same name our AP English class read the other day. The poem's included afther the fic. I'm thinking about doing a series of stories about the same scene, but from different points of view. Let me know if you think I should.
"Facing It"
I've stood in this spot hundreds of times. Sometimes I talk to the name in front of me, other times I just stand and think. Everyone knows I come here every Christmas Eve, but most people don't know just how often I visit. Maybe one person, but she hasn't said a word. I come here for all sorts of reasons. I came when I received my Silver Star. I came here after my little rendezvous with the dirty nuke. I came here after the conception of the five-year deal. I came here the day of the rose garden. Today I came because the Admiral sent me to the Hill for a meeting with the Chair fo the Arms Committee. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by and say hi to Dad.
I reach out to touch the familiar letters, and as my fingers slide across the cool stone, the image of an F-4 tailed by and enemy bogey flashes in my mind. I quickly remove my hand, not wanting to replay that scene. Not today at least.
I continue to stare at the black granite in front of me, but my focus shifts to the reflection of myself looking back. For an instant, I swear it is my father's face returning my gaze. It's almost as if he is inside the stone. Maybe he is. Maybe the souls of all 58,022 are locked in here, as permanent as their names on the wall.
I step back and turn my attention to the surroundings around me. To my left, I see a man without his right arm, his graying hair masked by his VFW cover. The look on his face signals that he is lost in memories of a time long ago and a place far away. I've seen that look before, on Admiral Boone when we came here four months ago. Behind me I hear a group of tourists. They've come to pay their respects, but I know that once the overwhelming figure in front of them is removed, so will the emotion. Fifty feet or so to my right, I see a woman holding the hand of a young boy. She brushes the hair out of his face, trying to hold back her tears. I imagine what it will be like when I take my children to see their grandfather. They'll only know him as a name on a wall. I can feel the tears threatening to escape, and I know it's my cue to leave. I told myself I'd never let my father see the tears his absence caused.
I look at the name before my and whisper a soft goodbye. "See you soon," I say. And somewhere deep inside, I know he hears me.
Facing It
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against the morning. I turn
this way-the stone lets me go.
I turn that way-I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterens Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own letters in the smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, the his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.
Author: Catch
Rating: PG
Summary: Harm makes a visit to the wall.
Disclaimer: They're not mine. DPB owns them. Blah, Blah...
Spoilers: Nothing specific, but everything's fair game.
AN: This is just a short piece inspired by the poem of the same name our AP English class read the other day. The poem's included afther the fic. I'm thinking about doing a series of stories about the same scene, but from different points of view. Let me know if you think I should.
"Facing It"
I've stood in this spot hundreds of times. Sometimes I talk to the name in front of me, other times I just stand and think. Everyone knows I come here every Christmas Eve, but most people don't know just how often I visit. Maybe one person, but she hasn't said a word. I come here for all sorts of reasons. I came when I received my Silver Star. I came here after my little rendezvous with the dirty nuke. I came here after the conception of the five-year deal. I came here the day of the rose garden. Today I came because the Admiral sent me to the Hill for a meeting with the Chair fo the Arms Committee. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd stop by and say hi to Dad.
I reach out to touch the familiar letters, and as my fingers slide across the cool stone, the image of an F-4 tailed by and enemy bogey flashes in my mind. I quickly remove my hand, not wanting to replay that scene. Not today at least.
I continue to stare at the black granite in front of me, but my focus shifts to the reflection of myself looking back. For an instant, I swear it is my father's face returning my gaze. It's almost as if he is inside the stone. Maybe he is. Maybe the souls of all 58,022 are locked in here, as permanent as their names on the wall.
I step back and turn my attention to the surroundings around me. To my left, I see a man without his right arm, his graying hair masked by his VFW cover. The look on his face signals that he is lost in memories of a time long ago and a place far away. I've seen that look before, on Admiral Boone when we came here four months ago. Behind me I hear a group of tourists. They've come to pay their respects, but I know that once the overwhelming figure in front of them is removed, so will the emotion. Fifty feet or so to my right, I see a woman holding the hand of a young boy. She brushes the hair out of his face, trying to hold back her tears. I imagine what it will be like when I take my children to see their grandfather. They'll only know him as a name on a wall. I can feel the tears threatening to escape, and I know it's my cue to leave. I told myself I'd never let my father see the tears his absence caused.
I look at the name before my and whisper a soft goodbye. "See you soon," I say. And somewhere deep inside, I know he hears me.
Facing It
My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against the morning. I turn
this way-the stone lets me go.
I turn that way-I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterens Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own letters in the smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, the his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.