I originally posted this on Memorial Day of 2010, when Steve and I were still living back in San Diego. Our twins were just 18 months at the time. Every Memorial Day, my first thought is to Marc, so I thought I’d repost this in honor of Marc’s life and sacrifice. And, for Maya, too. A true beauty.
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I left off the “happy” from the title of this post because “Happy Memorial Day” just doesn’t seem exactly right. More like, “Poignant Memorial Day.” A more accurate sentiment.
Steve and I took the babies to Fort Roscrans this morning, the national cemetery on Point Loma that overlooks all of San Diego on one side and then out across the ocean on the other. We waited in a long line of cars and tolerated the protests from our back seat even though we knew we’d probably only stay a few minutes once we were there.
We finally pulled off onto the shoulder, into the makeshift parking lot that was forming on the side of the road, and we loaded the babies into the stroller and took off up the hill.
Instead of participating in the parade or enjoying all the military bands, we just walked straight to Marc’s grave. We didn’t really discuss our plans ahead of time. I guess we both sort of knew, an unspoken consent, why we had decided to make the trip.
Marc was the first Navy SEAL killed in combat in Iraq. Because Steve was assigned to his widow immediately after she had been notified of Marc’s death, we feel a sense of connection to them. I wrote about the entire story in chapter 22 “Mourning” of Found Art, but it was all fresh again today.
Marc was killed in 2006. Today, just shy of four years later, we stood in front of his grave while our two children ran in the flag-studded grass around us. Our babies wanted so badly to pick up the empty bottle of Jack Daniels someone had leaned against his headstone, or the five gold SEAL Tridents that were lined up on top, or the wreath of flowers with the flag in front, or the vase of flowers leaning against the left side. All evidence that family and teammates had visited.
We picked up the babies and held them so none of the tributes that had been left would be disturbed. We talked about “Mr. Marc” briefly and then loaded the babies back into the stroller and walked back to the car.
It was a simple moment—pulling out fruit sticks to bribe our kids to sit still—and yet it was filled with thousands of words neither of us could ever say.
Each headstone a representation of someone killed in their 20s or 30s. Each headstone a reminder of the gravity of war. Each headstone a tragic loss. Each headstone, Marc’s headstone, a reminder of the worst fear turned true. And they go on and on and on as far as you can see.
As usual, I am suffocated by it all, and yet going seems so necessary. Acknowledging the reality of my husband’s service, the reality of the war that still rages, feels necessary. Taking our kids feels necessary. How could we possibly let today pass by without honoring what we have been through?
Today, we remember those who have died fighting for our freedom. Though war is indeed a complicated endeavor, today we acknowledge the great courage of those in the fight. Today, we remember Marc and his widow Maya, and we allow a sense of sorrow to sit with us knowing that Marc’s young and promising life—just like far too many others—was tragically and prematurely ended. I feel both deeply proud and deeply grieved by today.
I am honored to know men like these, to be married to one of them. I am honored to know those who possess an undying desire to bring hope to our beautiful children, bring voice to those who have been long silenced, bring relief to our bankrupt world.
May we all find the courage to join in such a fight.
