You can’t tell a war story.

The opening of a story is where you use a simple word, a quote, or anything to get the reader’s attention, something to generalize what you’re about to say, something to make sense to the reader. There is no one word, no one thing that sums up war. Stories don’t even tell the half of it. The feeling isn’t something you can translate to words, but it’s there.

I’ve never been in a war. I’ve never seen real conflict. I can’t even begin to pretend that I’ve seen anything like they must have seen, but I’ve seen them. I volunteer at the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial.

It’s not a normal grave. It’s not a normal plaque. It’s not a normal service. The faces are stone, cold, hard, and deceivingly emotionless as the wall they stare at. To the common observer, it’s just another building, just another face, but it’s not. It’s not something you can't express. It’s a façade. Humans aren’t meant to be isolated like this. It’s not normal. It’s not natural.

Some will smile and laugh, joke around. It’s not humor. Those who think it is don’t know anything. They don’t do it to laugh. They do it to keep the façade. That smile hides what you can’t even imagine. It only helps for so long.

Those faces of stone… you don’t know what they mean till you see them break. It’s no longer stone. The face… the wall… they have meaning now. I’ve heard him cry. He stood at the wall, one hand on the stone, and one hand on his face. He was not weak. He was stronger than any of those stupid tourists taking pictures of him. You don’t know what it means till you see him cry.

You can hear all the “stories” you like, but none of them will tell you the whole story. You need to see to understand, but you probably never will. Be grateful for that.