My Father and I My father and I began walking along the long, black, shiny wall. As we got closer, the footsteps were slower. We moved hesitantly. My heart began to beat faster and I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach. My father shook my hand as we approached a statue of three men cast in bronze. The Vietnam Veterans Memorial or “The Wall” was just beyond, but we found ourselves unable to move. My father stared at the statue, afraid to continue. Between silences, he talked about the sculpture's incredible detail work, such as the towel wrapped around the neck of one of the soldiers, the M-60 machine gun, and the soldier's pistol. ammunition bandoliers. I knew his thoughts were in a different time and place. Memories of the war began to replace everyday reality. For much of my life I have listened to stories of my father's experiences in Vietnam. He was drafted into the Army in 1967 and served in the infantry. While in the field he was engaged in numerous firefights and combat situations and lost two-thirds of his company during a four-day siege. When he returned home he encountered public opposition to the war and its veterans. My father actually fought in two wars, one at home and one abroad. All this pain he had been keeping bottled up was pouring out as we finally began our descent towards "The Wall". He held my hand and I could feel him shaking. I turned to him and saw that he was crying. His tears were for dead friends and wasted lives. I took a piece of paper and crossed out the name of a soldier my father knew from the wall. The names, row after row, thousands and thousands, engraved in the black granite made me understand the exact meaning of the war. People die. Tears rolled down my cheeks because for the first time I could feel and understand my father's pain. The war is over for my father now, but it will always be with him.