Memorial Day weekend began by looking for an old photograph. Sounds simple enough, but one box led to another until I was up to my knees in photos, slides, and reels of old film. Having already populated the pages of a dozen photo albums, I thought that I’d found what I was looking for.

I was wrong.

Deep in the back of the basement, I came across several large boxes that I never found the time nor the courage to open. The contents of each box contained photos, slides, and negatives. Comingled in the boxes were keepsakes, memorial cards, funeral registries, newspaper clippings, travel documents, and letters. I don’t function well amidst clutter, and it would have been easier to seal the boxes and put off the inevitable. Nonetheless, I pressed on.

We’ve all experienced loss. We busy ourselves with work and fill every moment with constant activity. But no matter how hard we push grief away, a coagulating sadness remains.

Somehow, I’ve become the reluctant keeper of memories. The collective sum of entire lives sealed inside cardboard boxes. As the unofficial family historian, I felt a sense of obligation to protect these life stories. And I have done just that—protected them, but not paid attention to them.

For generations, the men and women of my family have embodied the essence of service before self. They answered the call, running towards danger instead of away from it. Though as much as I respect my family, I cursed them as I dug through the boxes, questioning their decision to save everything. After all, what could have been important enough to keep all these years?

As it turns out, a lot.

There, amongst a paralyzing amount of chaos, I found them. Stacks of brittle, yellowed envelopes containing letters from World War II. As I began to read telling dispatches of missing home and family, I also sensed a camouflaged fear protecting loved ones from the horrors of war. Captivated by the contents, I read well into the night.

There were countless letters from my dad’s older brothers to my grandmother, written after grueling days of hard labor or fighting on the front lines. There were uplifting epistles such as, “What a day! What a day! Had our first sun after days of rain!” Another letter from my uncle announced with excitement, “Just traded one undershirt and two packs of smokes for a chair!”

Because of censorship, there was much that they wanted to say but could not. Some hinted of difficulties both in battle and on the home front. Ration stamps were issued for families. Yet even with food shortages, my widowed grandmother still mailed provisions to her sons far from home.

“Don’t go out of your way and don’t use your ration points, but a can of fruit juice would go good right now,” one letter said. A simple offering. A can of fruit juice. Two cans meant sharing with a battle buddy.

“Just received the package with pillow slips, book, envelopes, and paper that you mailed 8 November. Shared with some of the fellows in my tent,” wrote my uncle, his letter dated 17 May 1945.

What I discovered next was a deeply moving memorial. A tribute to Warrant Officer Russell E. Stewart penned and read at his service by his dear friend. Russell was KIA in Okinawa on 9 April 1945. He was 24 years-old and my dad’s older cousin.

A pain-filled letter written by Russell’s mother to my grandmother confirmed his death. His mother’s grief was palpable and as I read her letter, an empathetic knot welled up in my throat. I began thinking of my own kids; how cruel and unnatural it is to outlive your children. How we, as parents, bring forth new life. We raise, nurture, and protect our children only to have them violently taken away.

I began to cry.

I cried for Russell and for my great aunt and uncle who lost their only son. I cried for Russell’s sister, for my grandmother, and for everyone who had loved him. I cried for the memories of forgotten souls.

I believe that finding these letters on Memorial Day weekend was no coincidence. I felt a timely call to action but struggled with whether to share this. After all, the story of an ancestor that I’d never met is not mine to share. I set aside the letters and busied myself with other things.

On Memorial Day, we attended an open-air service and balloon release at a local cemetery. Arriving early, we noticed an elderly gentleman wearing a WWII cap. We thanked him for his service and invited him to sit with us in the shade. We listened intently as the 96 year-old veteran spoke freely of his time in the war. When I learned that he was stationed in Okinawa in the spring of 1945, the same time Russell was there, I had my answer. Sometimes, stories just need to be told.

Immediately following the service, we gathered to release our balloons. Tied to each was a small handwritten memorial, and never have I been so sure of what to say. The note attached to my balloon was simple: I will remember you.

In past years, the balloons would languish, bobbing and floating slowly into the horizon. This time was different. The blustering winds propelled the balloons with an undeniable urgency, expediently delivering our messages to the heavens.

Seventy-four years ago, Russell shed his blood for the country that I love and gave his life defending our freedom. In his short life, he made an indelible impression and enriched the lives of others. As evidenced by over 400 cards and letters to his family, Russell was dearly loved and respected.

We raise the flag and bow our heads in prayer for those who have gone before us. The true heroes are the ones who quietly answer the call to duty without fame or fanfare, many having paid the ultimate sacrifice without so much as a whisper of gratitude. No matter how much time has passed, we should remember the fallen. Speak their names. Tell their stories. But most importantly, remember how they lived.