I had a valid excuse.
When my father asked me to visit the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial in Holmdel with him, I had no choice but to say no. That day, I was swamped with homework, and scheduled for a shift at work. My explanation, however, did not hold up the next time he asked me to go. Or the time after that.
You see, my father was a proud and overwhelmingly patriotic disabled Vietnam Veteran. After serving from 1968 to 1972, his four years of service left him with not only physical scars and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, but with boundless tales to tell of the glories and horrors he had witnessed. His stories went unheard. In my ignorance, I was always a bit too busy to listen.
Then, my father died on March 5, 2008.
Moving on from this tragedy, my first great loss in humanity, I was struck by my selfishness. My father was a kind, loving, and selfless man, yet I could not gather the courage to visit the Memorial with him. I was afraid. To me, it was a memorial of Death. To him, it was a memorial of Life, and I could not understand why.
I visited the Memorial less than three weeks after my father’s death. Only then did I understand why.
Every time I have heard a story or read an account of the Memorial, it is usually spoken of in the same way: beautiful onyx marble, looking majestic as the rays of the fine sunshine strike it from all angles. Dazzling. The day I chose to visit the Memorial, the sun was in hiding. As I drove on the Parkway, dark clouds rolled in and the wind picked up speed. I finally arrived. Once inside the memorial, I began to read names. These engravings had no meaning to me – James, Charles, Isaac, Fred, Richard –
Richard was my father’s name.
I finally reached the apex of my emotional journey. I found it fitting that as I wept, so did the sky. Rain fell on my neck, puddle in my collar. I sat on a bench and looked at the names, the dates, the flowers. Many of the men eternalized on the wall were no older than I am today. My mind began to wander, to wonder, to imagine. I contemplated the men whose names lie upon the Memorial. I wondered who they were, what families they left behind, and how they had died.
As my mind wandered, I made a stark and humbling discovery. The men whose names are engraved upon the wall did not die of wounds. They did not die of gunfire, of capture, of cruelty; they died of Love.
We often do not give enough thought to the meaning behind the simple word. But Love is more than its four identifying letters. Love is the basis for life on earth – and as I have come to realize, it often is also the basis for death. What else holds the power to convince a man to sacrifice his life?
Life is the most precious thing we possess on this planet. Without it, there is only Love and memories. Love for God and country. Memories of the fallen.
Love for an outstanding father. Memories of his service – to his daughter, and to his country.
I met a woman in front of the wall – a kind woman, who began speaking passionately to me about the beauty and sadness alive in the place. Without even knowing her, I trusted her, and so I told her about myself and my father. She began to cry. She hugged me and she told me she was glad I had come. Speechless, I nodded.
I was glad I had come.
Stacey Milliman
Flanders, NJ