Chapter 1: The Bay of Self-Awareness

I find myself in a state of self-reflection, as expansive as a tarp spread over a lawn. For the first time, I acknowledge the window I’ve been gazing through all my life, yet never truly saw. In this new home filled with lingering spirits, my phone is flooded with cheerful Memorial Day videos. I would be dishonest if I claimed to feel the usual heaviness associated with this day.

Somehow, after many years, my feelings have shifted. The dull sorrow of brothers buried under landslides of memories lingers. I can hear the faint echoes of breath, the distant sound of gunfire resonating from deep within.

Amidst the chaos, the splintering of mortars carves the earth like an artist’s brush. The red stains resemble paint on an artist's fingers. This narrative transcends mere rocks, conflict, or mortality; it centers around time. It’s about the hemlocks and pines swaying in my backyard. It’s about the guilt that surfaces when sharp pain fades into a dull throb. Moving forward often feels like a betrayal, a way to forget those who have fallen—a path we refuse to take. This isn’t solely about me, yet I remain the one who endures.

I’m reminded of a previous Memorial Day when I ventured into the woods and didn’t return. Bret was left calling after me while I trudged into the downpour. The rain mirrored my current experience—perhaps Wisconsin has always been shrouded in rain during May, a natural way to grieve. It connects to past memorials like Normandy or VE Day. Or maybe I romantically associate weather with remembrance because I crave meaning in my confusion.

Coincidence feels too grand and clumsy a term to articulate the dense presence of death; it surely must signify something. However, it does not; the rain falls without reason—much like rain in April or during a mundane trip to the grocery store. It’s silent and stagnant, a futile science that overlooks the emotional language I scream into the void. Rain, akin to death, is expected to convey significance.

The silence envelops me. It’s like empty-nest syndrome, moving to a quieter life, or the aftermath of a tragic separation. It’s akin to the finality of a coffin closing or the stillness following a rifle discharge.

With a pack full of beer and memories, I ascended the hill. Branches lashed at my face until I broke through the underbrush and emerged onto a road tracing the ridge. I walked to the first gate, cracked open a beer, and drank it quickly, thoughts of Rob dominating my mind.

Rob is always first in my thoughts; he was the first to fall. Next comes Andy. Now, little Gutierrez occupies my mind, though he was alive during my rain-soaked walk. Today, he is not.

I continued along the road to the property line, crushing an old fence underfoot, then traversed a narrow path between dense woods to a high point where the trees parted. A farmhouse stood before me, my new objective. I approached it as I would a target—observing from the cover of trees, tracing my steps in tactical patterns, performing familiar rituals in preparation for an imaginary mission.

After cracking open another beer, I reflected on patrols, infantrymen, and the weight of a heavy pack on my shoulders amid the rain.

Descending into a hollow, I encountered another fence, stamping it into the damp grass. The sky was a tapestry of gravel clouds merging with the horizon, creating a rift. Beyond this rift lay a country road. I followed the shoulder until I stumbled upon an injured deer. Drawing my pistol, I shot it once in the head and dragged its body off the road.

By then, daylight was waning behind the trees. My thoughts returned to Rob and Andy, the deer—a visceral reminder of life and death. I hiked home, greeted Bret, then poured myself a drink, never to speak of that day again.

Now, I possess my own field, intricately shaped and textured behind my home. It’s a strong and clean space, made for soldiers trudging through rain with heavy packs.

This morning, I envisioned Rob and Andy patrolling my field, weapons at the ready. The sound of mortar fire echoed, though I couldn’t pinpoint its origin. Mud fell from the sky l