Reflections of Arlington on Memorial Day

Memorial Day marks the beginning of summer, but more importantly, it is a time to honor those who gave their lives in service to our country. Every Memorial Day, I go to Arlington National Cemetery, and I would recommend the experience to everyone at least once.

To be clear, I do not go to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier (which I highly recommend as well). I go to Section 60. Here lie many of those killed during the Global War on Terrorism. As you walk, you'll notice coins resting on many of the headstones. Most visitors pass by without knowing their meaning. A penny means someone visited. A nickel means you attended boot camp together. A dime means you served together in some capacity. A quarter signifies that you were there when that service member died. They are small tokens, but they speak volumes. Without a word being spoken, they tell families that someone still remembers, that someone came back, and that their loved one is not forgotten. I go each year to visit Bryan Black, a teammate of my son, who was killed in Niger in 2017, along with three others, when their Special Forces team was attacked by a force that vastly outnumbered them. I have heard firsthand accounts that none of them should have survived that day. I visit Bryan for a number of reasons, not the least of which is gratitude that I am not visiting my son’s grave.

You see every kind of person there. Some stand in silence, lost in thought. Others come seeking connection. Some sit quietly beside a loved one no longer here, while others share a drink and memories with an old friend. Many simply come to pay their respects to the fallen.

I wear my "colors" when I go—a Pineland flag ballcap. Pineland is the fictional country liberated during the final phase of the U.S. Army Special Forces Qualification Course. It's one of those things where, "if you know, you know." Around me are others wearing symbols of their own backgrounds and service: a fair number of Special Operations Forces (SOF) personnel, Green Berets, SEALs, MARSOC, AFSOC, pilots, Marines, Airmen, and Soldiers from every walk of military life. Some have pictures of their fallen on shirts, hats, or even in framed photographs.

We talk—sometimes only briefly, locking eyes and exchanging a simple "Good morning." Others stop and tell you their story, sharing who they are there for and making a connection with a stranger who somehow ceases to be a stranger simply because you are both there. All carry the weight of memory in their eyes. Sometimes that weight is heavy, sometimes less so, but it is always present. Others laugh, joke, and swap stories. But beneath it all, the loss remains.

There is, of course, a deep sense of reverence there, as there should be. But there is also something more—a spirit of remembrance and even quiet celebration. It is a chance to honor those who gave their last full measure and to remember them not only for how they died, but for how they lived. Of the men I have known, I believe they would have wanted exactly that: not solemn mourning alone, but stories, laughter, camaraderie, and a joyful remembrance of who they were.

Today I ran into a fellow Special Forces soldier, retired and in uniform. His mission is to pay respects to other Special Forces soldiers buried there, some he knew and some he did not. I sheepishly walked over in a T-shirt, shorts, and my Pineland hat and introduced myself. Standing with him was a British soldier, a friend in a suit wearing his beret, and his wife. I thanked them for being there.

He invited me to join him on his walk to honor the fallen. I accepted, with the caveat that I would have to leave before he finished making his rounds. No problem.

At the first grave, he pulled out three flasks of whiskey. Thankfully, he had watered them down. Hilariously, he told us that the first year he did this, he got a bit liquored up and quickly learned his lesson. I was grateful for the diluted whiskey because straight shots at 9:00 in the morning are generally not recommended.

At each grave he told us about the deceased—who he was, how he served, and how he died. Then we rendered a toast, saluted, and moved on to the next grave. I stayed with them until we returned to Bryan Black's headstone.

Two rows behind Bryan rests an Apache pilot—a husband, father, and son. His family gathers there every Memorial Day en masse: his wife, children, parents, siblings, everyone. Today they were handing out breakfast sandwiches while spending time with him. We don't know each other's names, but we know each other because of the occasion. Despite the circumstances, they are warm, welcoming, and genuinely joyful people. Yet even in the smiles and conversation, you can still see the pain in their eyes.

My final stop is the graves of SFC Eric Emond and CPT Drew Ross, two of the four Americans killed on November 27, 2018, when an improvised explosive device (IED) detonated near Ghazni City, Afghanistan. Emond was on his seventh combat tour.

My son lived with three other Special Forces soldiers, and one of his roommates was on that team and survived the blast. Like Niger, this loss rippled through our lives in tears, hugs, and conversations with people I had never met before. I feel obligated to stop there.

I place my hand on their headstones and say a silent prayer. Then I look up, lock eyes with others passing by, and quietly say, "Good morning."

Some of us knew each other before we arrived. Most of us did not. Yet for a few hours each Memorial Day, strangers become friends, stories are shared, and connections are made through a common purpose. Throughout the day, I think about the men we came to honor—not how they died, but how they lived. The stories told, the laughter shared, the families gathered, and the friendships remembered. For a few hours, they are all present again. That, in many ways, is Memorial Day: remembrance, gratitude, sorrow, pride, and love, all existing together.

Arlington National Cemetery 0820 Memorial Day 2026