Where a soldier dies. It changes the memory

 Someone dies in combat there’s an often a memorial. A place for their name to be etched in stone. Found. Remembered. A place to be shared. A place to live on after those who remember them have passed away.

If one of those soldiers takes their life, there usually isn’t the same remembrance. Hopefully there is a headstone. A place for those who remember them to come. At least while they’re still living. Hopefully they have someone to pass on the memory. But often there is not.

For those in combat, there are rosters, reports. Records to tell the stories. Places to find the struggles. Something tangible along with the oral tradition of those who fought there. 

Those who take their lives, maybe there’s a note. Hopefully a journal, a social media profile. Something that makes the stories known. Reminds who they were. Not as many will be around to tell the story.

One of the biggest burdens on our veterans is telling the story only they remember. That memory is both a blessing and an obligation. We are the only ones who remember WHO these people were. It’s not just about what they did. It’s more about how the thought, who they loved, what they believed in.

That may sound sappy. A bit overly sentimental but it’s the truth. Of those I’ve lost, what hurts the most, yet heals the most, are the memories. The bets over rockstars, the one liners, the moments sitting in a hot ass field bitching. The stuff that made life in the military worth it. The people.

Today is an anniversary for me. Not a pleasant one. And I’m lost in the memories. I just hope that the good memories outweigh the pain. 

I just hope that others feel the same. Maybe I’m not alone in this. 

I want to remember. I don’t want to grieve. It’s just hard to separate the two sometimes. Especially when it feels like no one else is doing either.