I found your name today.
You left in 1967 after I turned twelve, just as budding breasts and pimples captured my attention. You were
my father's best friend's oldest son, his namesake. I, too, was an oldest son.
Our fathers sang together in a barbershop quartet. They harmonized, practiced in our living room while I
retreated to my bedroom, shutting the door on my embarrassment.
You and I had little in common. I remember you as tall, dark and brooding-although I could never have
described you that way. I don't remember the sound of your voice, or if you ever sang. I don't remember if you
ever spoke to me. Such privileges were not granted to twelve year-olds by those over eighteen. You had other
things on your mind.
For you, nothing was more frightening than the future.
You took your father's advice. If you had not listened, we might have become friends, the oldest sons of best
friends.
I am a father now. I have two beautiful sons. I have given them lots of advice-more than they ever wanted,
more than a father should be allowed. Like your father, I've been wrong.
But never that wrong.
I remember your father as a handsome man. A quiet man. A brilliant one, or so his silence allowed me to
believe. My father loved yours, as much as men born before the Great Depression were allowed. After you took your
father's advice, I never heard him sing again. And your mother's hair, the thick black mane that cloaked her strong
shoulders, turned bone-white.
Your mother died a pauper, long after your father passed. My father said he died of a heart attack. Broken
hearts don't always mend. He said his best friend's heart gave out making love to your mother. I couldn't believe
their house-the one with all the curtains drawn, the one my mother said felt like a morgue-had any rooms with love
left in them.
I don't know how your mother ever forgave him.
I can't imagine your father's pain.
Your younger brother drank himself to death and my father said the middle one "went straight to hell," taking
the path of drugs. He said he advised his best friend, the one he used to harmonize with, to "kick the boy out." But
that never happened. My guess is your father never understood how my father could suggest such a thing.
I know my father never understood your father's advice.
As the years passed, as I neared your age, I watched the world more carefully. I ignored pimples, wondered
about the future. Wondered how my father might advise me. In the end, he had none.
There was no need.
Your entire family is gone now. Your father Walter. Sally, your mother. Your brothers Terry and Dennis. They
all left after you did.
I found your name today, Clifford.
For a quarter of a century, I've wanted to come here.
Leaving the racket of rush-hour cabs, I made my way through a grove of naked trees that leaned into a biting
January wind. A squirrel ran across the sidewalk. Brittle leaves scattered like frightened mice. I knew what I was
looking for, but I didn't see it at first. It was hidden from me, like the lives of your brothers.
And then, it revealed itself.
The Wall was exactly as I had pictured it. Long. Black. Sleek. Just like Sally's hair. Brilliant in its silence, just
like your father.
I opened the book listing the names of your fallen comrades and searched for yours, half expecting to find a
phone number. My fingertips caressed these letters.
Walter Clifford Bunyea, Jr. Panel 29E, Line 38
With my back to the Washington Monument, now gilded pink by the setting sun, I eased past seemingly
countless names. Yours greeted me at eye-level.
I stood before Line 38, hands stuffed in my jacket, and started to cry. My eyes closed as I heard your father's
advice.
"Enlist, Cliffy," he'd said forty years ago. "It'll be safer that way."
Thirteen days after you set foot in Vietnam, small-arms fire stole you.
I freed my hand from a pocket. I reached out and touched your name, Clifford.
After all these years, I could not believe how warm it was.
You left in 1967 after I turned twelve, just as budding breasts and pimples captured my attention. You were
my father's best friend's oldest son, his namesake. I, too, was an oldest son.
Our fathers sang together in a barbershop quartet. They harmonized, practiced in our living room while I
retreated to my bedroom, shutting the door on my embarrassment.
You and I had little in common. I remember you as tall, dark and brooding-although I could never have
described you that way. I don't remember the sound of your voice, or if you ever sang. I don't remember if you
ever spoke to me. Such privileges were not granted to twelve year-olds by those over eighteen. You had other
things on your mind.
For you, nothing was more frightening than the future.
You took your father's advice. If you had not listened, we might have become friends, the oldest sons of best
friends.
I am a father now. I have two beautiful sons. I have given them lots of advice-more than they ever wanted,
more than a father should be allowed. Like your father, I've been wrong.
But never that wrong.
I remember your father as a handsome man. A quiet man. A brilliant one, or so his silence allowed me to
believe. My father loved yours, as much as men born before the Great Depression were allowed. After you took your
father's advice, I never heard him sing again. And your mother's hair, the thick black mane that cloaked her strong
shoulders, turned bone-white.
Your mother died a pauper, long after your father passed. My father said he died of a heart attack. Broken
hearts don't always mend. He said his best friend's heart gave out making love to your mother. I couldn't believe
their house-the one with all the curtains drawn, the one my mother said felt like a morgue-had any rooms with love
left in them.
I don't know how your mother ever forgave him.
I can't imagine your father's pain.
Your younger brother drank himself to death and my father said the middle one "went straight to hell," taking
the path of drugs. He said he advised his best friend, the one he used to harmonize with, to "kick the boy out." But
that never happened. My guess is your father never understood how my father could suggest such a thing.
I know my father never understood your father's advice.
As the years passed, as I neared your age, I watched the world more carefully. I ignored pimples, wondered
about the future. Wondered how my father might advise me. In the end, he had none.
There was no need.
Your entire family is gone now. Your father Walter. Sally, your mother. Your brothers Terry and Dennis. They
all left after you did.
I found your name today, Clifford.
For a quarter of a century, I've wanted to come here.
Leaving the racket of rush-hour cabs, I made my way through a grove of naked trees that leaned into a biting
January wind. A squirrel ran across the sidewalk. Brittle leaves scattered like frightened mice. I knew what I was
looking for, but I didn't see it at first. It was hidden from me, like the lives of your brothers.
And then, it revealed itself.
The Wall was exactly as I had pictured it. Long. Black. Sleek. Just like Sally's hair. Brilliant in its silence, just
like your father.
I opened the book listing the names of your fallen comrades and searched for yours, half expecting to find a
phone number. My fingertips caressed these letters.
Walter Clifford Bunyea, Jr. Panel 29E, Line 38
With my back to the Washington Monument, now gilded pink by the setting sun, I eased past seemingly
countless names. Yours greeted me at eye-level.
I stood before Line 38, hands stuffed in my jacket, and started to cry. My eyes closed as I heard your father's
advice.
"Enlist, Cliffy," he'd said forty years ago. "It'll be safer that way."
Thirteen days after you set foot in Vietnam, small-arms fire stole you.
I freed my hand from a pocket. I reached out and touched your name, Clifford.
After all these years, I could not believe how warm it was.
photo by jonathan d. colman
r.kv.r.y. non-fiction spring 2008
PANEL 29E, LINE 38 by Fred Melton
PANEL 29E, LINE 38 by Fred Melton