insignia I’d worn for more than half a century.
When I finished, Marcus looked toward the words painted on the dining hall wall. RestaurantDining Guides
We Carry Our Own.
He read them softly.
Then he turned toward me.
“Ma’am, does carrying those memories ever become easier?”
I thought about my brother.
About the wounded soldiers. SupportVeterans
About Angela and her sons.
About the young people who’d spent three weekends building a ramp outside my home.
Then I answered.
“The memories don’t necessarily become lighter, sweetheart.”
Marcus lowered his eyes.
“But
