Remembrances

The Shoshone do not speak the names of their fallen warriors...

There’s a line on the Wall. The white engraved letters add depth to the ebony marble. I’ve pressed my fingers to each letter, and stood in the pouring rain, staring at it.

Today, he’s been dead over twice as long as he lived.

He once told me the heart of a warrior never fully stops beating. It rests, patiently awaiting the call to stand amongst those who will fight.

His journey took him from Austin, Nevada, to Fort Benning, Georgia, and ended on the first Thursday of May, 1970, on one of the most savage battlegrounds in American history. I learned, years later, that not only did he and I share the battleground that day, but that he died less than a thousand yards from me.

The line between friends and brothers often blurs, but remains undiluted by time. 

After all these years, the memories of his smile and his friendship comfort me.

He would have understood the irony in the death of a Native American, fighting a white man’s war, against Asians.

For now, he rests, and patiently awaits the call of his brothers.