I Remember

POETRY FORMAT, 2 Jun 2025

William H. McRaven | The Atlantic/RSN - TRANSCEND Media Service

“I remember the weight of life and death at the end of our guns.”
Photo: Chris Hondros/Getty Images

26 May 2025 – A Poem

I remember the heat.
A dry, suffocating torrent.
The blazing, burning sun
baking the tarmac.
No clouds, no trees,
just a furnace of hate.
I feel the hate.
I remember the heat.

I remember the dust.
Filling our nostrils, caking our mouths.
It rained from the sky
and rose from the ground.
With every turn of the tire
and step of the foot there was dust.
Dust, everywhere dust.

I remember the heaviness.
The helmet pressing on my head,
the armor squeezing my chest.
I remember the weight of life and death
at the end of our guns.

I remember the fear.
Aboard the eight-wheeled coffin,
surrounded by a thin shield of steel.
The fear of the streets.
The fear of the smiling people.
The fear of no return.

I remember their faces.
So young and so stoic.
Why couldn’t they have been old men?
Not the young.
Not the young who would never grow old.
I remember their faces.
I cannot forget their faces.

I remember the loss.
The searing pain of the unfilled boots,
the solemn speeches,
the lowered ramp and the flag-draped coffin.
A hole so deep in my heart
only God could fill it.

I remember the letters.
Written again, and again,
and again, and again.
When will the letters stop?
Why were they so young and stoic
and brave and caring?
What will I say this time?

I remember the sorrow.
The sound of “Taps” on the hillside
covered with the graves of heroes.
A tearful widow, a weeping child,
a folded flag.
I remember the sorrow
so clearly.

Their shadows grow dim
and I fight to remember.
Their stories grow old
and I must fight to remember.

They gave everything.
The least I can do is remember.
I remember. I must remember.
I must always remember.

Go to Original – rsn.org

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