The things seen and done then are just memories now. Many as faded as the photographs. I see a face I know and am ashamed that I can't remember his name. I can remember how he died. Why can't I forget that instead.   

    The once colorful ribbons and medals are also dulled with age. Reminders of that time when I was someone else. They didn't come cheaply, and they each have their own story to tell. They're souvenirs from the many mad dashes into the jurisdiction of hell. And back. That's the important part. I am proudest that we always came back with passengers who hadn't expected to return at all.

    The box has been put away for such a long time, many of its treasures have fallen victim to numerous moves and re-organization attempts. It has also spent many long, lonely hours waiting unceremoniously in trunks, garages and storage buildings. Sometimes it was entrusted to the care of others because I couldn't (or wouldn't) find space for it.

    I'm ashamed that most times I ignored it - like it didn't exist at all. My only excuse is that we were told what we did was insignificant, immoral and even criminal. Of all the emotions the box contains, it's the guilt I don't understand. All we did was what we were told. We had a close up view of the "big picture" of freedom, duty, and country - even if the picture wasn't always in focus. Today I'm told that it was O. K. by those who now have the intellectual hindsight to judge us. I think I would have preferred insight instead. It doesn't matter anyway, for their new found enlightenment doesn't entitle them to an opinion. If I am to be judged, I appoint the box. It's been there. It's qualified.

    Often at night when things are quiet and dark the box beckons me. I hear a faint call in my inner self, rousing me from half-sleep. Voices and sounds emerge from it. Voices not heard since that distant time in that distant place. Sounds of gunfire, thumping rotor blades, and radio transmissions crackling with excited calls for help. It also holds smells. Just a slight wisp of those odors brings vivid recollections. The sights, sounds, and smells of the box also brings tears. They may not be visible, but they're there just the same. As time passes, they become more noticeable, more difficult to suppress. Often they make it all the way down my cheeks before I can catch them. Funny, they also seem to burn my eyes more than they used to.

    The box has walls to hold its contents - its memories. I know of another wall. It too is made of memories. Thousands of memories. I'm not quite sure I am ready to encounter all it holds. I am drawn to it, yet at the same time I am repelled by it. It's like being taunted by both ends of a magnet. I suppose that's fear. That's why The Wall is the perfect symbol of Viet Nam. For those who served, it holds the same fear as the war it so accurately and vividly represents. The names etched upon its face are ever vigilant but silent sentries to remind us of its over-priced demands.