I sat there as he pressed the flag’s wooden stick into the ground. The red, white and blue caught a gust of wind as if it was “proud” to be there. He took the small bundle of flowers and attached it to the grave. I watched my dad hide a tear as he looked down at the grave stone.

My dad was a Purple Heart recipient on two occasions. Miraculously he survived the injuries, the removal of shrapnel and the large doses of morphine. But what did not survive was his mind. His body had survived but night after night he relived the loss of friends. His friends who were shot as they parachuted down. He spent a time in the hospital and after months returned to combat. His final battle of the war was the mortar shell that removed much of his face, causing him a loss of hearing, plastic surgery and more months in the hospital. But the greater loss was that of his friend. John’s body had taken the brunt of the shell, killing him.

My dad never missed the opportunity to honor a service man or woman. Never failed to buy a red poppy and put coins and bills in a can.

My father lived because another had died.

Memorial Day brings up memories of those lost serving this great country of ours that we might have freedom.

A few years ago I walked through a local cemetery and showed my youngest grandson the flags, the flowers, the emblems. I explained that we could play baseball and eat hot dogs because of the great sacrifice of our service men and women.

My dad was a survivor but the weightiness of the loss of so many friends was a weight that he never could get free of. Perhaps he was over the top in his pain he felt, but how many of us recognize the great sacrifices of men and women that we might have freedom?