Dear Rick,
I’ve been remembering that humid night in Pleiku when I saw you and your friend Rusty, grinning up at me from the front row, your young faces furrowed by the burdens war. Fear. Sorrow. Grief. Frustration. Boredom. Homesickness.
The music from the little band I brought with me must have been balm to your ears after the metallic crashing exploding crying of combat. You were close enough to see my face streaming with sweat, close enough that you could’ve touched me if you reached out.
And I winked at you, Rick. I saw the momentary shock on your face and you turned to your friend, Rusty, and said something. And you both laughed. I did my show and sang my songs and you never took your eyes off me. And when it was over and I had helicoptered off to another God-forsaken fire station, you and Rusty went back to your daily routines. The other men who watched my show that night went on patrol and none of them returned. I was the last woman they saw in this life, and they took the memory of me along for company.
And you, Rick, when the sniper’s bullet ripped through your brain where your memory of me lived, and your closest friend Rusty knelt next to you as your life fluttered away like a frightened bird—you took along a piece of my heart and left a piece of yours with me.
So I’m thinking of you on this Memorial Day’s eve, Rick, thinking of the night I flirted with you, and wishing there was a better way to honor you than with these inadequate words. But they are all I have. So with all my heart, rest in peace.
Love, Mamie.
Memorial Day is about honor and remembrance of those who did not return from war. Do that today. And every day.
Inside/Out 
I’m 58-years-old and the meaning of Memorial Day has never been more impactful than today after reading your words. For many, we were not directly affected by the tragedies of this time and the holiday has been more of the unofficial start of summer than a day of honor and remembrance. Thank you for sharing and educating through your additional talents as an accomplished writer.
What an incredibly personal and heart-rending memory for you. If not for a nearly blinding detached retina in 1970 that made me 4F, I might have ended up over there and never come home. With each passing year I get a little madder over the futility and insanity of war and the horrific human toll. Thanks for doing what you could for those brave souls and for never forgetting.
I was there 68 – 69, sorry I missed you.