Reflections on The Wall
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7/28/91
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It was my fourth visit, and I was surprised by the number of people there. Dismayed, even. But what did I expect, coming on a spring Saturday? Twice I had gone by night, quiet, Lincoln’s stern reflection glowing off black granite.
My mother came this time and she cried. “He used to be so funny.” I never imagined she’d find a memory here, like so many others. Why did it shock me so?
I found my way to the name I met my first time. 12 West, line 52. “Hi Donald.”
There’s a man making rubbings and I follow him. He’s so busy. I keep following and now I steal my chance. “Will you do one for me?” I take pictures of the old man’s hands, rubbing pencil over paper, and in my mind, I make up a life to go with the name.
A young boy walks by with his father, and I hear him ask the question. The father says, “Ah…jeez, well it all started…”
I turn away, with Donald’s name, climb out of the crevice, and step back into the world.
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steadily skipping stones 