The grass was wet and uncut. The bottoms of his pants were wet. The dew on the grass was like newly fallen teardrops, or maybe leftover tears from people who has visited before.

The wall was dreary but beautiful. He comes every year to visit and leave flowers like everyone else. The wall stands tall and proud. People who really care believe you can still hear the faint sounds of helicopters, gunshots and sometimes even voices.

The man reaches out to the wall and touches one name. The name means a lot to him. He will always love that person. As he touches the name, he begins to cry. This is the only place I have seen my father cry. It is my name.

Every name has a soul that lives inside the wall. It is where we have to stay. Even though he couldn't see or feel me, I was touching his hand, and we were both touching my name. It felt so cold. I called out to him even though he couldn't hear me. I wanted to talk with him again. In all my adult years I had never told my father I loved him and now I regretted it. I knew if he listened hard enough and believed long enough, he could hear me. I gathered up my strength and said "I love you, Dad." He looked at my name and whispered "I love you too, son." Then he put down his flowers and walked away. 1