Memorials

Today I met a man who had a chest full of medals, sleeves lined with aging gold stripes and a demeanor that told me he was comfortable with a life commanding others. His face lined with age and, by his own admission, his memory fading. He payed me one of the most undeserved compliments today by thanking me for what I do professionally. My eyes stung with tears. A man, with a purple heart quite prominently displayed on his chest is thanking me for doing my job. I couldn't even speak. His scars were earned in Vietnam. How do you thank a man for serving, and then thank him for the hell he lives every day in memory of that service?

One morning a few years ago I was getting ready to go to breakfast when I kept hearing this name on the news. This familiar name of a man; an F-18 pilot lost in the Indian Ocean - proably dead. When I came back into the room, they had a picture of him up. He was the ex-boyfriend of a dear friend of mine. They had parted because he was to go to school elsewhere for a year. She still very much loved him. A few days later I found a picture of the two of them together. It broke her heart.

I've stood in Arlington Cemetary and watched the burial of the broken pieces of a friend's brother who died in a aircraft crash in Iraq fighting in the war. I've worked with men who have been sent there and died; I've worked with men recently who will be going there soon. Freedom is not free. We pay for our selfish lifestyles with the blood of our children, siblings, spouses and lovers.

These men and women protect us. Support them. Thank them.