It was an odd feeling. I was in a public place and not misbehaving. The area was well lit and there were others about.

But it felt like I did not belong.

It was after midnight and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall was lit by strategically placed lamps and by the light of the moon. Most visitors had come earlier in the day, throngs of them searching for the names of those who had perished. They left behind mementos meant to be understood only by themselves and the dead they mourned. Most of these esoteric rituals were done in daylight.

The witching hour was for those who preferred more quiet contemplation.

A man and a woman stood in silence on one spot, gazing with concentration at a low section of the gleaming wall. They appeared not much older than myself. Perhaps they had lost a parent to the war, a beloved uncle or older sibling.

A woman moved quickly along the path before the monument, stopped automatically where she meant to be, and stood for three minutes with eyes slitted and lips pressed together. She seemed to nod quickly to herself and then she was gone.

A lone man, possibly in his late 50s, was propped on one knee with his head pressed into a fist. I never saw him move at all. I wondered what grim memories were replayed behind those closed eyes, but I stepped onto the grass to avoid walking too close.

And that’s just the thing. It was solemn, all of it, and I was reluctant to walk among these people at all. A curious sense of shame sent me away sooner than I had planned to go.

To me, stepping in on the sad rites and personal moments that occur in such sacred places feels akin to intruding on a stranger’s funeral. I’m too young to have served in that nasty war, and nobody close to me died on its battlefields. Thus, this creeping sense that my very presence at the wall was somehow a defilement of it.

I understand much of my own psychology. But I don’t understand all of it.

Don Goulet is a Lewiston man who has become a great friend over recent years. He was injured three times in Vietnam, twice in one battle, and has a pair of Purple Hearts. In the year he was on the battlefields, his company lost 80 marines out of the 160 that went to fight.

Don is one of those veterans who will share small portions of his wartime memories, like bits of paper torn from a napkin. The bulk of it, he keeps to himself.

After leaving the wall that early morning, I wrote to him to explain this odd sense that I was not entitled to make a visit to a place memorializing an event to which I had contributed nothing. His response was immediate and unambiguous.

“I am pleased that you visited the place. The wall is a sacred work of art dedicated to those who fell and to those who go on living. You seem to have a problem relating to relevance of this in your life which is quite understandable. You weren’t even born when we fought for our country.

“But when young guys such as you honor the wall, you are also honoring those who fought and are still living, and it feels damn good to have our efforts recognized. In today’s world, Iraqi veterans return home generally to a hero’s welcome, thanks to the lessons the American people have learned through their treatment of Vietnam vets. Welcome home, boys.”

Eloquent words from one in the know. Cut to the chase, it all comes down to a common lesson I should have understood from the start.

Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.