Silence. The city dies into a murmur, a whimper. Names stare out at people, light grey or pink or yellow depending on the time of day. Men stare through the names, stare at the passersby. Children touch and draw back, surprised by the cold stone, surprised by the stares. Silence, and the names still looking, hundreds of markers for one dark stone.
Offerings are given to the names, left in memoriam, left with a murmur, a whimper. They are dark, the names are—dark and majestic and beautiful and horrifying. Shadows move in them, blurry, as if seen through tears. The names stare out at their friends, family, fans, feeling nothing, only staring.
Generations pass before the names, staring into them and wondering. They pass or remain in silence.
This is a bit shorter than normal, but when I got to the last sentence it just ended--there wasn't anything to add. I wanted to write about the Vietnam Memorial because it's striking to visit, and I felt it wouldn't be too abstract to covey that feeling in short prose.
ReplyDeleteNicely done. I get it, the memorial from this, which, as you say, is a very striking thing, very evocative, and maybe not so much mysterious as moving in a complex way. The reference to "fans" maybe confuses things a bit, and maybe the nature of the wondering that happens can be specified more. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend checking out Yusef Komunyakaa's poem "Facing It," which is a really remarkable evocation of this experience from the perspective of a vet. You can also find a recording of him reading the poem online at the Poetry Foundation, I think.
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