Over the last two days, I’ve been posting photos on Instagram of Marines I knew who sacrificed their lives in combat.

This weekend, above all others, raise your glasses for the rough men and women who marched to the sounds of the guns when asked by their country. Til Valhalla.

I’ve spoken about him before on twitter and on ZBT, but it’s crushing to me to think about my friend Chris Diaz. His son was born just days after my oldest daughter. Jeremie doesn’t know his dad. Chris and Jeremie were robbed of life.

I loved Chris like he was my actual brother. When he was killed, part of my heart frozen in place forever. Songs take me back. Smells. Jack Daniels.

I’m not a religious fella but when we dine again, it will be a liquid diet.

Always beside. Never below.

I didn’t meet Chris’ mom until after he was killed. When I met Sandra, she took my face and kissed my cheek. She said, “my sweet boy loved you. You’re my sweet boy now, too.”

Wearing the eagle, globe, and anchor were the honor of a lifetime; it is a burden that lasts more.

And because I think honesty is important, the list of those I trained and were killed/lost limbs is long. It’s a defeat I wrestle with constantly.

My personal injury doesnt haunt me like the pain of my Marines.

It’s a rainy Memorial Day night. That feels appropriate.

Good night. The flag flies at half mast tomorrow which will simultaneously be too high and higher than all others.

We can and should be better. Certain names demand it.