This is very short, which I'm not happy about. I thought maybe this would push me into like, ~3k territory, but that's not the case. I'm sorry! I know most of my works are around 1000 words, give or take.

I know it's past Memorial Day, but I couldn't get this idea out of my head. Enjoy. :)

MEMORIAL DAY

I knew he wouldn't come home.

I didn't want to tell any of the gang, but I knew. I knew he told the rest of them that he couldn't help that he'd been picked, but he'd told me he signed up on his own free will. I knew the moment he walked along that grass to airplanes that would take him to some world we would never see, an era sure to fly by too soon, that we would never see him again.

The city of Tulsa, Oklahoma had never been so shaken, so wrecked, by a death. People came up to me in stores, at work, and even on the street. I swear to God I can barely recollect five of them while the rest just fade away. Before his death, I'd spent much of my life sitting back and letting life find me. Now, I had to practically chase life down just so I could escape the questions, the "I'm sorry," the pity in people's eyes.

When I got the call at 2:00 in the morning, I knew before I'd even opened my eyes. I remember stumbling through the house and throwing myself into the kitchen cabinets as I'd tentatively answered the phone. I don't remember hearing them say he was dead; I don't remember them saying that he wasn't coming home, that I was on my own. I only remember a dread sinking into my skin, fresh tears on the edges of my vision, but my body too numb to let them fall.

I only remember solemnly walking back to bed, waking up the next day with that burden, and keeping it to myself until his name blared on news headlines.

I don't think he died a typical soldiers death. I want to believe he had some Vietnamese bastard by the skin of their neck, choking the life out of them, when he was gunned down. I want to believe that he kill all of those Vietnamese sons of bitches with his two hands and no one else's. I want to believe that when he stood there on that battle line that he wasn't looking for trouble, or an attempt to one-up another soldier, or a reason to get discharged. I want to believe that his dog tags weren't on his body and thrown somewhere in the rubble when he died. I want to believe that he wouldn't risk his life for those he loves.

But I know myself better than that. I know him better than that.

I know he secretly granted so many Vietnamese soldiers mercy as they fought on the same soil. I know he helped finish what other soldiers had started. I know he was looking for a way to get discharged so he could return home to us. I know that he held his dog tags tight to his chest as his helicopter was shot down and the pilots called for mayday. I know he risked everything for us - for the American people.

When they gave me the flag, his commanding officer told me that he was one of the best soldiers he'd ever seen. I smiled to myself and knew that it was, in all of its sadness, something he would have strived to do.

Almost all of our fathers were military men, storming through dust and dead bodies.

Every Memorial Day, we stop and we see our Dads. We all pay our respects to the men that saved us, who came home for us, who created us. We thank them for their service as so many others do, but it's different. It's more heart-breaking to have all of us there, at the same time, worshipping the men who created us, but also beat us and drank until their heart stopped.

We can't be here alone, though. It's almost more heart-breaking to be here alone.

When I first came here, I told my Dad that I was gonna protect my gang. I was gonna protect them, keep them safe, tell them not to cause trouble, just like he told me. I told him that my gang was my family now; that my family was my everything, just as Mom, Soda, Pony, and I were to him. I told him that I loved him, that I was sorry he died, and that I wished he was here to see me fighting for my life just as he did.

Now, when I come here and sit on this old plot of land, I see his tombstone beside theirs. Sometimes, if I squint my eyes tight enough, I think I see their silhouettes against the reddened Tulsa sky, their pride as warm as the sun that washes their tombstones black upon nightfall.

I'm so sorry you had to leave.

I know it wasn't your plan to go into 'Nam. I know you had no desire to fight for a country that forced you to do anything. I know that your life was more important than anything in this world, but even still, you grew into a man and took that fucker by the horns.

It's painful to imagine why you died. How you died. Who you died for.

I miss you. God, I miss you. I miss your laugh. I miss your hugs. I miss your cocky ass grin when you told a bad joke. I miss your presence in my living room, my bathroom, my bedroom. I miss seeing you passed out on the couch.

You were the one I hoped was gonna make it home. Out of everyone here, I hoped that if anyone was gonna go to war and return home, it was gonna be you.

I miss you, Keith. I love you. We promise to not let you down like the world did.

Saluting you always,

Darry

He was a son. A friend. A fighter. A soldier.

But in all of that, he was my brother.

A damn good one at that.