Edward Thomas Kiezkowski. A name I hadn't thought about too often in more than 30 years. But there it was, etched into the black granite on panel 23W, line 9, of the Wall in Washington, D. C.

I grew up with Eddie in Butler, the town that lies 30 miles north of Pittsburgh, PA. Our families went to the same church, we attended the same schools. Eddie was three years older than I, in the same class as my brother, Darrell.

Darrell remembers Eddie as a good friend all through their school years. Eddie, who loved sports, was tall and thin with blond hair and blue eyes.

I don't remember much about Eddie except that he was a nice guy. I don't suppose we spent much time together since the difference in our ages, though small, was so much more important then. But I will always remember that his life had been taken in Vietnam, far from our close-knit South Side community. No matter how long it took to happen, I knew that I would look for his name and trace it with my finger on the memorial the first time I saw it. I had that chance last Easter.

May 28, 2003 marks the 34th anniversary of Eddie's death in Vietnam. According to his personal information sheet on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall website, he was killed in Kontum, South Vietnam, a hostile, ground casualty. He was 20 years old.

Approaching the monument to Americans who died in the Vietnam War, visitors can be overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the number of names etched on the Wall. Even though I knew the statistics of the war—more than 58,000 killed or missing—I wasn't prepared to actually see each of the names given a permanent home on the curving panels of granite. It's impossible not to be touched in some way, maybe especially by the mementoes left at the Wall by loved ones—hand-written letters taped to the stone, stuffed animals, single red carnations.

When you come up to the Wall, evidence of the stunning loss of young American lives will take your breath away. Standing there, all I could think about were the thousands of families who had lost loved ones, most of whom were so young they never had a chance to start their own families. I have a son who is a year older than Eddie was when he died, bringing the tragedy of it all home to me again so many years later.

On the same website that honors Eddie and the thousands like him, there is a note written by Robert Navarrete, a fellow veteran and friend of Eddie's. Writing to Ed, Robert says that he often thinks about his lost friend and what his life would have been like if he had lived. Would he, like Robert, have grandchildren now? "I live my life not just for me but for all those I encountered in Vietnam that died there," Robert writes. "I've tried to live life as to have some meaning because I know God had something else in mind for me."

On Memorial Day and every day, I hope we will remember that God did indeed have something else in mind for us: to take a moment to remember those like Eddie who died—and are dying—to preserve this freedom we cherish.

By Teresa K. Flatley
2000