I loved putting on your camo fatigues and playing “marines” by myself for hours on end.

I remember being so enamored walking through your barracks at the end of boot camp. I got a flat top haircut at Earl’s barbershop to match.

You made my day when you showed up at my school lunch in your “tan marine clothes.” You ran with us on to the playground at recess for the best game of tag ever. You looked like you genuinely enjoyed it as much as I did.

I couldn’t wait to follow you into the marines when I got older. It all changed suddenly.

I must have been about 9 years old when I heard the news over the radio. We had just pulled into mom’s work and were still in the van when the news came on that Bush Sr was sending troops into Iraq for Desert Storm. Even at that age I somehow understood the reality of it. Immediately I started crying at the thought of you going to war. Mom tried to console me telling me you were going to be ok.

It wasn’t cool or fun anymore. It wasn’t backyard games. It wasn’t make believe. It was reality.

Death isn’t real to most kids. We were not most kids. I knew what it meant to lose someone. I didn’t want to lose you.

I don’t want to lose you now.