Like many Americans, my Memorial Day weekend begins at the airport.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see faces and cell phones pressed to the nearby airplaneâs oval windows. A small crowd is also gathered above us in the terminal, looking on. My team of seven sailors, dressed in our summer whites, is waiting on the tarmac of Birminghamâs airport to receive the last remains of our shipmate.
In todayâs America, the stillness and formality of this moment feels very much out of place with our casual and irreverent culture. Iâm proud of my team, but Iâm also heartened that busy travelers pause, take off their hats, and silently pay tribute to this sailor coming home.
As an officer in the U.S. Navy Reserve, I have buried 173 fellow service members. Some have died young, like Joshua Kaleb Watson, an ensign just out of Annapolis, shot by an Islamic terrorist in Pensacola. Others have been old men, like Hormer Kapula, a World War II vet who died at 101 years old.
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