The Wall Still Heals

Sitting in a lawn chair, the sun at ten o’clock,

his tired and heavy eyes hide pain and old shell shock.

He doesn’t say a word, stares at that wall of black.

One name has his attention, igniting a flashback.

For five days in a row, he’s glad that he is here.

His feelings on his sleeve, he doesn’t hide a tear.

He got two hours of sleep though ten were spent in bed,

just to relive memories of darkness and bloodshed.

A trip to our nation’s capital was never meant to be.

Thus, that wall of granite was one he’d never see.

So, when he heard that wall would be here in mid-May,

his kids made him a promise to bring him every day.

From the weathered cap I wore, he knew I was a vet.

When asked why he was there, he said, “I can’t forget.”

I knelt down beside him, said, “I don’t know what you’re feeling,

but give this wall a chance; it’s capable of healing.”

From his threadbare vest he pulled a black and white,

said, “That’s Scooter on the left; me, I’m on the right.

We were both just twenty, consumed by real fears.

It was both the saddest and the worst of years.

“My wife had never met him, but she knew his name.

Sarge said it wasn’t my fault, but I take the blame.

Each year on August 2, I stay inside and cry.

That was the day that Scooter woke up just to die.

“I don’t talk about the war unless I’ve had a few

and I’d rather talk to Scooter, no offense to you.

I’ve no medals on a shelf; I’m just an old draftee,

while memories of Scooter still live inside of me.“