Death, War, and Cemetaries Part 2

So, after awkwardly bumbling through my first anti-climactic failure at explaining death, I prayed I would have a several year cushion before having to revisit this subject. Honestly, I think summing up sex will be an easier process.
But on Saturday, Dad asked me to come with him to the Vietnam Memorial that was temporarily being shown at the Acacia Memorial Garden. So, I figured I'll try and wing it when it comes to explaining this to kiddo...but praying he'll ust get distracted by geting to wave a flag and this will be a breeze (I know, baaaaad mommy thought).
We get to the cemetary, and I realize it's one of those ones that has the little flat headstones doting their landscape, eschewing the large monolithic headstones. On a personal note, I hate those kind. Granted, I plan on being cremated and scattered. But if you are going to go through the trouble of being planted in the ground for "eternal slumber" you should get one of those big wonkin headstones with the pretty carvings or witty epitaphs. If you are going to be permanently "around", do it with some dang fanfare! Subtle, dignified, and serene...pshaw.
Anyways, so now we are trying to tell Anthony those are NOT stepping stones, and he would face some severe consequences should he dare place a foot near one. As we walked up, I had to pull the mommy card and answer "BECAUSE I SAID SO" when he kept asking why.
So, we get to the wall, and my dad wanders over to the book to look for names of the people he had served with. The sheer size of that memorial can really get to you, just sitting there realizing how many names are on it. We saw people taking rubbings of names of loved ones, and some cried as they ran their fingers over the engraving. Anthony stared quizzically at his surroundings, not really saying much, just watching people walk along the wall. He walked over to it for his own inspection, and then asked what all the words were. I gently explained that they were names of soldiers (he does know this term, as Mommy has several friends in the armed forces and has shown him pictures). He asked where those soldiers were, and then if they were the ones standing over to the side.
I pulled him to the side and thought about this one. My answers here could lead to a cascade of complicated questions. "Honey, you know how Chunk got sick and had to go away and not come back?"
"uh-huh"
"Well, all these people went somewhere, and aren't coming back. Their names are on this wall so we can remember them, because they were very special people."
"They're soldiers"
"yes. and soldiers should be remembered, and they are special"
"is this all names?" ok, keep in mind, I'm kinda paraphrasing, because my son's grammar is a little off, and it takes a bit of practice to actually put together what he's trying to get out.
"yes"
"is a lot of soldiers"
"yes"
"where did they all go to not come back?"
War. Son, they went to war. That's what soldiers do. You see soldiers as people I'm friends with who put on funny outfits, and some have pictures with guns. But those outfits mean they go away and use those guns against other people wearing slightly different outfits, and hope that it's the other person who "won't be coming back". War is supposed to be when we're the good guys and we're making the bad guys stop doing bad things, and when I eventually get to explain this to you, it will be that black and white. I'll save the shades of grey on this subject for an even further day. But for now, or at least, now being when I say this all to you, war is good guys stopping bad guys. And eventually they'll build another wall, and Mommy will take you to that one, too, and you'll see her make a rubbing and cry, like those people there. And maybe when that happens you'll understand that the name is of the soldier that is in the picture on our wall, and you'l know why he's not coming back, and how very special it is to remember these names.
"They went away to a far away place"
pause...toddler thought process working...
"they are crying..." he was looking at a couple who were knealing by a lower name, taking a rubbing of it and quietly mourning. Going by ages, I'm guessing it was a sibling.
"yes, like when mommy cried because Chunk couldn't come back home. They are crying because they see the name of someone else that they loved who couldn't come home"
So I see the gears in my son's head clicking, and realize he has now decided this is actually a wall of pets' names. Or maybe he thinks that Chunk now has an awesome outfit and a gun, because he seems quite satisfied with my bungled answers, and I am most certain his comprehension is missing some key elements in this puzzle.
As we walk back to the car, Anthony wants to know why he can't use the "stepping stones". So I tell him that those stones have names on them, like the wall, names of people who went away and aren't coming back. He begrudgingly accepts this answer, and gets in the car.
As my father gets in the car, though, I see him break down. I don't see this often, and it's always the most jaring thing to me. He was upset, frightfully upset, because he couldn't remember how to spell the names of the person he served with, so we couldn't find him on the wall. It was a common name, so it wasn't like we could wiggle through a guess. And he could only remember one name, although many in his original unit died there.
I hugged Dad, and tried to tell him it was ok. He had just been through so much emotional stress, his brain just wasn't bringing up certain details. Not knowing the name didn't mean they meant less to him. I know this didn't help, and I felt damn stupid saying it. I dared not utter the obvious, that I was secretly saying a prayer while we were there thanking "to whom it may concern" that my father's name wasn't on there.
As I let Dad compose himself, I notice that Anthony has watched this exchange quietly. I'm guessing he chose not to ask any more questions because the last few answers Mommy lobbed didn't make a lick of sense. His little mind had already dismissed a wall of names, and stepping stones that weren't for stepping. And I'm pretty sure he's determined that adults crying must be tied to a recent meteorological oddity.
Give me a couple of years, kiddo. I'll read some more books, talk to some therapists, and hopefully I'll have enough time to formulate a better answer. But for the sake of that precious innocence, I pray that time doesn't come for a very long time.