Everything They'll Never Have

The soldier woke thinking about coffee—real coffee, not the bitter mess hall stuff—his mother's Sunday morning brew. He'd sit at her kitchen table next month, complaining about the taste while loving every sip.

He never made it home.

The medic had bought a ring and hidden in her footlocker between love letters and photos. She'd practiced her proposal speech a hundred times, imagining the surprise, the tears, the yes.

She never got to ask.

The sergeant carried pictures of his kids in his helmet. Gap-toothed grins and crayon drawings that said "World's Best Dad." His daughter's soccer season, his son learning to drive. Both needed their father at graduation.

He never saw them grow up.

The private was nineteen and had never been kissed. He was too shy to tell the girl from home how he felt. He planned to visit when he got back, maybe walk by the lake where they skipped stones, maybe find the words.

He never found the courage.

The colonel was three weeks from retirement. Thirty years of service. His wife had plans: a garden, grandchildren, trips in their RV. They'd earned their quiet years.

He never got to rest.

When the attack came, it came fast. There were no last words, no heroic speeches, just soldiers doing their jobs, thinking about home, thinking about later.

The coffee grew cold on a table.

The ring stayed hidden.

Soccer games continued without their biggest fan.

The first kiss never happened.

A widow planted the garden.

They gave up everything: wedding anniversaries for memorial services, grandchildren's laughter for gun salutes, and first gray hairs for folded flags.

Gone: every birthday cake. Every Christmas morning. Every ordinary Tuesday.

No more learning new things. No more favorite songs or falling asleep during movies. No more inside jokes with people they loved.

They'll never know how their stories would have ended. Never see who they'd become. Never experience the small miracles: morning coffee, evening sunsets, someone's hand in theirs.

They died carrying unlived lives. Dreams became memories before becoming real. Every tomorrow became never.

On Memorial Day, we remember this. Not just how they died, but everything they gave up in life.

We remember that freedom costs everything they'll never have: every sunrise they'll never see, every embrace they'll never give, and every laugh they'll never share.

Today, we carry their dreams with ours, hold their stories within ours, and make their never into our forever.

This is Memorial Day's promise:

In our living, their sacrifice endures.

In our loving, their memory lives.

In our freedom to dream and love and grow old, their gift keeps giving.

We remember.

We honor.

We live lives worthy of their sacrifice.