Memorial Day

I never got the chance to meet you, and it's not something my father ever talks about. In fact, the only time I distinctly remember seeing my dad cry, was when someone tried to talk trash about you. You did what you thought was right, and your little brother looked up to you, following in your footsteps in his own way. Your nephews followed suit. None were brave enough to be Marines, but all of them served their time in your honor.

You didn't come home, but your memory is still alive. I can remember a hot June day, on my father's shoulders, rubbing your name on a sheet of typing paper with a crayon. Once for my grandmother, my aunt, for uncle Larry. For my father.

I have the ring you bought my grandmother with your first real paycheck. I'll keep it for the daughter I hope to have someday. I'll let her know, with pride, what I know about the man who bought it, all those years ago.

Thank you for what you did, Bobby.