It was something we did every year, my father and I. I would call him, and when he answered would say, “Well, I’d wish you a happy Memorial Day. But it’s not really happy, now is it.”
“No, so. No, it’s not.”
My father occasionally talked about serving in World War Two and Korea, of missions flown and friends lost. He spoke of the missions freely. The friends? Not so much. The decades may have dulled the pain, but they could never take it away.
Which was as it should be, really.
God bless those who served and never came home.
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