My Father and IMy father and I started walking along the long, black, shiny wall. As we got closer, the footsteps became slower. We moved hesitantly. My heart started beating faster and I felt a pain in the pit of my stomach. My father shook my hand as we approached a bronze statue of three men. 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 the silences, he talked about the incredible detail work of the sculpture, such as the towel wrapped around the neck of one of the soldiers, the M-60 machine gun and the soldier's weapon. ammunition cartridge belts. I knew his thoughts were in another time and place. Memories of the war were beginning to replace today's reality. For most of my life, I have heard stories of my father's experiences in Vietnam. He was drafted into the Army in 1967 and served in the infantry. In the field, he participated 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. In reality, my father fought two wars, one at home and one abroad. All that pain he kept repressed spilled out as we finally began our descent toward “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 scratched the name of a soldier my father knew on the wall. Names, row after row, thousands upon thousands, carved into the black granite, made me understand the exact meaning of the war. People are dying. Tears streamed 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 she will always be with him..