Of course she was with him chattering, rushing him through the gravel parking lot onto the shadowless lawn. She dropped his hand long enough to tighten the scarf around her neck then pushed into gusts of wind, one arm linked through his — the other swinging a Brownie Kodak from her wrist. They scaled down a worn slope to the dedication area where crowds milled around the stretch of black panels. His eyes scanned middle-aged men in field jackets gazing into the reflecting wall. Over and over he witnessed fingers trace then linger upon a name. Behind the camera her laughter slapped air as she snapped pictures of the day's glory. Focusing on her husband— she commanded him to smile. Alone in silence, he stood touched only by drab olive and dress blues blending under clouds, bleeding steadily across black granite. He turned into beating winds, raised his collar and trudged up the dry embankment away from her— way from them all. Those who'd been there — they'd understand, just as he realized she never could. S.D. Sawyer 4/26/1984
