Waiting at the Gate

Memorial Day evening.

Short tonight.

Life happened this weekend.

Swimming lessons.

Travel.

The usual movement that somehow fills every available inch of time.

Yesterday morning started with remembering my Border Collie, Salem.

Two years now.

Still hard.

Still strange.

Still one of those losses that catches me off guard.

Then came another call.

Another loss.

A woman I have only ever known as my aunt.

One of my mom’s lifelong friends.

Gone.

So yesterday became one of those days.

The kind where grief does not crash into you all at once.

It just quietly sits down beside you.

Later, while I sat outside trying to process things, Zoey came out onto the porch.

She looked at me and told me she knew I was hurting.

Then she said something that stopped me.

She told me that since it was the same day, two years later, she thought Salem was probably there waiting.

Tail wagging.

Ready to meet my aunt.

And for a moment, I just sat there.

Because maybe.

Maybe.

Today was work in the office.

Preparing for the new gaming rig.

Checking boxes.

Getting things done.

And taking moments to remember.

The funerals I attended.

The ones I learned about afterward.

The names.

The faces.

The families.

Because today is not a "thank you for your service" weekend.

It never has been.

Not for me.

Not for the men and women who served beside me.

We know who this day belongs to.

The fallen.

The ones who never made it home.

The ones whose families had to answer knocks on doors.

Fold flags.

Empty chairs.

Learn how to keep moving afterward.

I have said it before and I will say it again.

Those of us still here can answer for ourselves.

Today is about those who cannot.

And the families who still carry them.

Maybe remembrance is not really about monuments or ceremonies. Maybe it is sitting quietly on a porch, carrying old grief and new grief at the same time. Maybe it is believing, even for a moment, that somewhere beyond what we understand, an old dog is standing at a gate with its tail wagging.

This is a grounded moment where remembrance belongs to those who paid the price and those still carrying it.

Much love. Stay safe. Wash your damn hands. I’ll see you Wednesday.