The Vietnam War plays a role in my personal history as I revisit a special young man, a boyfriend, a Marine, taken at the age of 18.
Family members, but particularly my parents and my father and mother-in-law’s cards, tug at my heart with many beautiful memories. Thumbing through the pages, I am connected with two young sisters, who were just 16 and 17 when they died. I smile as I remember the trouble they used to give me in our music group.
I look upon the face of a friend, who, unable to write herself, dictated letters that I scripted to be given to each member of her family after her passing. What a beautiful gift to leave behind.
I almost laugh out loud when I gaze upon the card of a former student of mine, son of a farmer, who in his humble way taught me the importance of seeing what could be, instead of what was. At age 18, it seemed that so much lay ahead for him, and yet now I see how much was already lived.
I look at and gently touch a card of one of my closest mentors. Each Friday, for more than 20 years, we shared breakfast with one another. That time together helped me to grow into the person that I am today.
Gazing at the cards of those who left because they could no longer live in the darkness brings me into a place of sadness for their lives cut short. But the grace of their lives, however brief, added to the beauty of my own.
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