Dale Pearson
In memory of my brother, Dale Pearson, 1945 – 1967
A ragged man, in worn fatigues, stands staring, pain reflected in every angle of his body. He reaches out to touch the Wall. The sweat on his hand beads on the cool stone, sliding down the surface to gently pool in one of the names etched there. His body shakes as as he is bombarded with memories. Feelings that he has kept tightly bound for so many years erupt, freeing him to finally cry – for all he saw, for all he did, for all he lost. There is a cleansing rush as sobs shake his being, the burden of not being on the Wall beginning to lighten…
The Wall
It’s only a wall….
Solid, cool to the touch,
Yet burning with memories of those
Whose names are eternally etched
It is only a wall….
But a tangible reminder
Of a war not understood
And the loss of a generation
It is only a wall….
But the mere sight of it
Can crumble strong men,
Releasing demons from tortured souls
It is only a wall….
Yet it takes the heart,
Turns it inside out,
And exposes all the pain of loss
It is only a wall….
But the aura enfolds us,
Drawing tears from our eyes
And grief from the depth of our being
It is only a wall….
But as they kneel, heads bowed,
Reliving horror, wrestling guilt,
It becomes a stone confessional
It is only a wall….
That draws us like a magnet
Where we seek the presence
Of those who did not come home
It is only a wall….
Where gently tracing a name
Fills the heart to overflowing
And makes it hard to catch your breath
It is only a wall….
But it helps to heal the broken,
When a tentative touch on black granite
Can bring a wave of soothing peace…
-Bobbi Berg 2012
Bobbi Berg is retired and lives in Redding with her husband.
