Reflections From This Memorial Day

Last Monday, I spent just about the rest of the money I had to host a large Memorial Day party. I’ve always felt that it’s an especially sad day – the memories of certain lives snuffed out by war, I try not to dwell on for most of the year – and I just wanted to bring together a bunch of veterans and civilians to have a positive celebration, no matter the cost. I needed that one day community and support, and I was glad that some of my civilian friends, who support the military but rarely get to show it, had that chance to do something tangible for me and war-weary veteran friends.

We toasted to the fallen, just like how we thought they would want us to. We reaffirmed our brotherhood and our dedication to being always faithful. And inevitably, despite our desire to not relive the pain of our experiences, the conversation turned to Mike’s dad.

Many of the Marine friends I still have today were my friends in high school. A large group of us joined together. Mike Starr, a hero of Fallujah one of our fellow Perry Hall High School alumni, wasn’t there last Monday. He hasn’t been with us since January 26, 2005 when his helicopter crashed killing all 31 on board.

I attended his funeral with all my worthless, clunking awards on my chest, which meant nothing when compared to the sacrifices he made, like his Purple Heart from battle. (At his viewing I learned that Mike was wounded in the face but refused treatment for days so he could still fight alongside his guys.) His family was there. His father hugged me over and over, thanked me profusely for my support, and stared into my soul with broken eyes. I have never seen a more devastated man. Still to this day, I’ve never been so close to such anguish. I promised to keep in touch. I never did.

One of my friends who is now a police officer, had pulled Mike’s father over to chat with him a couple weeks ago. It’s over five years later, and that friend reported to us at my party that Mike’s dad is still not doing well.

I had thought about inviting the Starr family to my Memorial Day party. I imagine that day is so lonely and dark for them. But I knew that ultimately my party would be what it turned out as: a bunch of young twenty somethings getting crunked and going wild; and while not speaking to it directly, we quietly lamented the sacrifices of our friends.

We spend a lot of time trying to assist the tens of thousands of mentally and physically wounded who have survived our nation’s wars, but what do we do for the families of those who did not return home?

I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t have the answer. 

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