Memorial Day arrives each year with the same familiar rhythm — flags placed neatly along sidewalks, families planning long weekends, stores advertising discounts and free meals. For many Americans, it marks the unofficial start of summer. But for those of us who wore the uniform, especially those who carried it into combat, Memorial Day is something far heavier. It is not a celebration. It is a reckoning.

I spent nearly 24 years in Army aviation, deploying multiple times to combat zones from 2002 through 2013. Over those years, I learned that war leaves you with two things: memories you can speak about, and memories you can’t (or won’t). And then there are the names— more than 30 of them, etched into stone, etched into my mind, etched into the quiet moments when the world goes still. Some were close friends. Some were men I barely knew. But they were all brothers. All were part of the same long, unbroken line of Americans who gave everything so others could come home.

When I visit that memorial wall, I don’t just see names. I see faces in the dark — faces illuminated by the glow of a cockpit, the flash of a headlamp, or the first light of dawn after a long night. I hear voices I will never hear again. Laughter that once echoed through plywood hooches in some desert. Arguments over missions. Jokes told to break tension before wheels-up. And sometimes, the last words spoken before fate intervened.

Those memories don’t fade with time. They sharpen.

That is why Memorial Day is sacred. It is not about the sales, the barbecues, or the extra day off work. It is a solemn, tear-filled day for countless families and veterans across this country. It is a day when Gold Star families set an extra place at the table. When battle buddies reach out to one another because the silence feels too heavy. When veterans sit alone with a drink in hand, staring at a photograph or a folded flag, remembering the ones who never made it home.

For many of us, instinct is still there — the urge to put the uniform back on, to shoulder the weight again and to stand beside our brothers and sisters one more time. But we can’t. And that truth carries its own kind of ache. So instead, we honor them the only way we can: by remembering.

This Memorial Day, I ask the people of Fayetteville and Lincoln County to pause — truly pause. Bow a knee. Raise a glass. Speak a name out loud. Teach your children why this day exists. Because the freedoms we enjoy were purchased by men and women who will never grow old, never hold their children again, never walk through their front doors after deployment.

If you know a veteran, check on them. Not out of pity, but out of respect. Memorial Day stirs things inside memories, guilt, pride, grief — that don’t always surface the rest of the year. Some carry it quietly. Some carry it heavily. All carry it.

To my fallen brothers: I remember you. I see your faces. I hear your voices. And I will carry your stories as long as I draw breath.

To the families who lost someone: your loved ones are not forgotten.

And to this community: may we never take for granted the cost of the freedoms we enjoy.

’Til Valhalla.

— Keenan is a retired Army Chief Warrant Officer 5 and a veteran who lives in Fayetteville.