Thanks to all veterans

Thank you to those who have bravely served our country, especially to Dad Burt, Uncle Bob, Uncle Dick, Don, Richard, Ben, Grandpa Daynes, and Mr. Glenn.

(Below is excerpted from an essay I wrote in high school)

The path veered to the right, and as I rounded the corner, I saw it. There, engulfed by a reverent silence, was the Wall. The black marble monument, know as the Vietnam Memorial, was set in a hillside, effectively blocking the omnipresent din of Washington traffic.It was so quiet that I thought to myself in whispers, though I was fairly sure no one else was listening.

I walked slowly down the declining trail and tried to take in everything at once: the people lining the walks, the sun gleaming off the polished black stone, the sudden cool air that brushed against my skin. At the base of the wall, I reached out to touch it. The black should have been super-heated after spending the entire day in the sun; instead, it was pleasantly cool. The columns of names were each deeply carved under the year in which they died or were declared missing in action. I traced a name in front of me with my finger. The name felt like fine sandpaper, tugging at my skin.Because I was too young to remember the war, I watched as other people reflected on it.

The crowd thinned a little, and I saw a woman in a pale pink dress approach the wall. Her chestnut hair was graying at the temples and base poorly concealed her wrinkles. She knelt at the gutter that ran the length of the wall to gently place an offering in it. Her breath stuttered as a tear escaped down her cheek, then she kissed her fingers, touched them to a name, and walked briskly away. I crept closer to see a mud-encrusted combat boot, creased and cracking at the toes and holding a crimson rose.

Further up the wall was a man in a hospital-issue wheelchair, stringy hair and beard in need of shampoo. His army fatigues were tucked neatly back under his legs at the knees. Between the stumps sat a bottle of whiskey. I fully expected him to take a few swigs from the bottle, but instead he opened it and poured it into the gutter, his piercing gaze only half in the present. A bitter tang rose into the air, and I shuddered.

A whimper broke the silence. Under the "1970" mark, a young father showed his young son and infant daughter a name, while bouncing her in his arms. "This is your grandfather, my father.""When are we gonna see him, huh?" the boy asked impatiently."We can't, Josh. He died a long time before you were born. But you would have liked him. He liked baseball, just like you, and loved to fish and wrestle." They stood there a long while after that, but it was getting late and I had to get home.

I took one last long look at the names in front of me. To my surprise, I noticed behind the neatly engraved names and numbers my faint reflection. I was on the wall too. The dead silently charged the living there that day to remember.