by Darlene J. Coomes

Created on: May 08, 2009

A gray streaked pony tail trailed down his back. Around his forehead,a blue bandanna held back the stray strands from his tanned, weathered face. A well worn pair of pants and jacket in camo fabric completed his outfit. Every time she saw him he had on the same garments; ragged around the edges, holes in the elbows and knees. In sharp contrast to his clothing, he kept each pant leg tucked neatly into his army issue black, lace up boots, always highly polished as if parade ready.

She looked at her watch, 12:15. He showed up at exactly the same time every day. He walked to one of the black granite panels, placed a hand as high as he could reach on the names and began mumbling as his fingers glided over each chiseled line. She assumed he must be reading each name aloud to himself. His search seemed never ending.

She worked in one of the information booths and came here to eat her sack lunch as often as she could. The tourists were quiet and respectful at the Wall, more than at any of the other memorials. She found it a very restful place to sit and watch the visitors. She made up stories about the people placing flowers or a small memorial. The one that intrigued her the most was the man she sat watching.

She imagined many different scenarios for his daily routine. He must be one of the Vietnam Vets who still suffered from PTS and came each day to honor his comrades who died in the war. That's the one she felt would be nearest the truth.

Torn between not wanting to interfere, or disturb him, and longing to know the secret of his daily ritual, she once again, watched the compelling drama.

He examined two or three panels every day. Some days when he reached the end, tears spilled silently down his whisker grizzled cheeks. On occasion, he had what looked like a bottle of booze in a brown paper sack. He never drank from it until he walked away.

She'd asked the park rangers about him but no one seemed to know who he was, or where he came from, or why he did what he did. He never caused any problems, nor did he speak to anyone. He held his silent vigil each day without fail, no matter the weather. As she watched him today, she sensed there was something different about him.

When he'd finished the last two panels, he sank slowly to his knees, his arms up, palms sliding down the Wall. He bowed his head then raised it to the sky, silent tears streaming, his anguish palpable, as she sat there telling herself to turn away. It was too private a moment for someone to be ogling

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