Fifty-eight thousand faceless names march by solemnly, silently. Name, upon name, upon name in an endless procession, each with a private and all too brief story behind the thing etched forever, gray against black. The walkway descends as the black wall rises to an overpowering ten feet, creating a world of its own. There are no sounds of traffic anymore. Tones are hushed.
Casualties of war are everywhere.
Memories are as numerous as flowers. Suddenly it is difficult to see. This huge, silent army becomes a monstrous blur. The stones on the walkway are hot and they burn my knees, but the granite is, oh, so cool to the touch. The tears come publicly, but this is a very private moment.