Fighting in the Valley

Dad: They were fighting there, in the valley, to a man. Fighting and dying.
Me: What was the name of the valley, Dad?
Dad: (In an eerie sort of voice- one that I will never forget) That's the thing. No one knows, to a man. They just fight and die, and none of them knows why.

I've no clue why this last bit of conversation keeps rolling through my consciousness. Over and over, and the tone of his voice when he talked about the valley. It pulls at my heart. I've never heard him talk like that- almost as if it were someone else's voice. Maybe it was. I don't know. But it's burned into me with a sweetness born of his longing to tell me how much he loved me. For a need to wipe away over 50 years of pain and contention.

Yes, there are times when the pain peeks through. When I remember words as whips, anger and the need to control and cause pain. But mostly now, I remember that valley, and the reverence with which he spoke of it. I realize that the two of us, by virtue of our physical infirmities, were soldiers fighting in that nameless valley. One of us fell, and one remains standing. And still, we don't know the name of the valley.