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Mother paged through the names,
In the book of names
And then, businesslike
Read aloud;
“Robert S. Bagnall,
Bloomfield, Connecticut.”
And I read too, but silently,
Remembering
High school basketball
And yearbook photos.
“January, 1968 –
Date of Casualty,” it said.
Impersonal words for death.
“Row 34E,” she said
And stiffened.
“Line 40,” she said, and turned away
As it struck.
“I will not cry,” I thought,
Remembering
A boy I hardly knew,
We all admired
Healthy, handsome, easygoing,
Clean cut.
His hands in such white gloves, folded.
Brass buttons, Navy blue linen.
“I will not laugh,” I thought,
Thirty years ago,
Teenage cool at the funeral.
But ambushed by those stilled gloved hands,
I sobbed like a child,
And reached to his own mother for comfort.
Our safe young lives.
Bobby had it planned so well
In his good and easy way –
Team captain, class president,
High school graduate,
Soldier,
College,
Career.
Exploded, they said.
Was it a quick clean cut
Or did he suffer?
Was he alone
Or did he die among friends?
The Wall was only one inch high
At first.
And then a name.
And then three names,
Then five.
Then I stopped counting.
I took a photograph where the Wall
Towered like an ancient obelisk,
Monument to some dark mystery.
A woman dabbed her eyes,
Looking at a brother, a cousin
A son,
Forever young.
His name
Next to so many other names –
His friends?
Or soldiers dying in another place
In the same hour?
Question upon question.
We saw ourselves reflected, ghostlike,
Otherworldly
In the Wall
Against the names,
Solid names carved in granite.
We reached out from our pool of reflections
And touched the names,
Wanting something.
Who were these boys, these men?
A thousand million reasons
Beyond us now,
Within us forever.
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