A part of time and our hearts stopped at that
moment that no matter how many years pass will
feel like yesterday. The memory of the knock on the door,
seeing two class A uniforms in the glow
of the porch light, the turn of our color to paste
from the message sent by the Secretary of the Army,
that anchor that dragged us into the darkness of an ocean deep
where we fought for oxygen, fought to shed
the weight of why, fought to care for ourselves,
fought to reach the surface and carry forth your legacy.

It’s been written that with death a spouse loses their partner,
a child loses a parent, but parents lose their future.

Now four years later
the surprising part is that the burden delivered
to our souls that day didn’t kill us. That it
has lightened and the tears don’t fall
as often although we’re still not sure we’ve accepted
that you are anyplace else except traveling
the globe with your surfboard, gliding on your snowboard
down mountains that touch the sky, shadowing
quietly behind each of us who loved you,
letting us see and feel you through a heart shaped
leaf on the walkway at our door, the kiss of a breeze across
our face, or the hawk that still calls often from the oak.
Or that you remain ever so quietly still clutching your motto
Toujours Pret, Always Ready,
still covering and protecting your brothers
still suffering the desert sands.