The coffee shop was busy, but I sat alone. Just me, my lukewarm coffee, and another Veterans Day without him.
People always say it gets easier. Time softens grief. It may be for some. I still felt the wound five years later.
James was my spouse and greatest friend. A soldier. On days like today, it felt like nobody recognized his sacrifice for this country. Neither parades nor social media posts interested him. They were for thankable folks. Homecomings.
I barely noticed when someone sat across from me as I glanced out the window.
“Excuse me,” he murmured softly. “What was his name?”
I turned and blinked at him. He had a military-insignia jacket and was probably in his mid-50s. I looked down and saw his hand softly on the table, curled like he felt loss.
“James,” I whispered.
A man nodded. Tell me about him.”
Suddenly, my throat swelled. Because nobody asked. Yes, they sympathized. James’ identity, loves, and humor were never asked.
Hard swallow, exhale.
I began, “He had the worst singing voice you’ve ever heard,” smiling slightly.
I finally felt less alone that day.
He laughed, leaning forward. “Go on.”
Wrapping my hands around my coffee. He sung anywhere he could—in the vehicle, shower, etc. And he was awful. He didn’t care. He always maintained music was about feeling good, not sounding good. That was James. He lived passionately.”
The warm-looking man nodded. “Sounds like someone worth knowing.”
“He was.” My fingers traced my cup rim as I inhaled. The man also stopped for every stray animal he spotted. Sometimes drove me insane. We had three dogs when he deployed because he ‘couldn’t just leave them there.’” I laughed softly, shaking my head at the remembrance. “He had the biggest heart.”
Though he smiled, his eyes showed more. Understanding. Similar anguish to mine.
“I lost my brother,” he said. “Afghanistan. Six years ago.”
I looked at him, sensing our shared sadness. I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” He sighed, looking at his hands. “I think of him daily. However, on days like this… He motioned vaguely, his voice fading.
I nodded. “It hits harder.”
He paused before gazing at me. “Do you ever feel like the world moves on without them?”
Swallowed the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”
“Me too.” He sipped his coffee and set it down. “So I started doing this.”
A little frown. “Doing what?”
Our kind of company. Losing someone who should be here.” He looked around the cafe. I find someone alone and ask about them every year. They deserve remembering.”
This time, my throat lumped with more than grief. It was thanks.
“That’s…” Shaking my head, I exhaled. “That’s amazing.”
He shrugged lightly. “The least I can do.”
First time in years, I felt something change. Grief may not go away, but it may not have to be borne alone.
For over an hour, we talked about James and his brother Mark. They were males. What they left. Free love they gave.
The man then withdrew a little, folded paper from his jacket pocket as I left. “Can I give you something?”
I paused, then nodded.
He gave it to me. A letter my brother wrote before deployment. He constantly warned if anything happened, someone else might need his words more than me.”
Unfolded the paper carefully. Handwriting was deliberate and neat.
If you’re reading this, I didn’t return. I need you to know. Love continues. I’ll never leave if you keep telling my stories. Keep discussing me. Keep giggling at my poor jokes. Continue living. So you keep me alive.
Tears obscured vision. The letter pressed against my chest, overwhelmed.
I mumbled, “Thank you,” voice thick.
He shook his head, “No.” “Thank you for remembering James.”
When I left the coffee shop, I noticed something. Grief may last forever. No, neither does love.
Have you lost someone? Tell their story today. Say their name. They still matter.
Share if this story affected you. Hold onto memories. Because love never ends.
