I feel as if I have to write something in memory of them. They inspire me, even if my writing seems uninspired this day. I give thanks to Gary Neiman, who I last saw in the days before we returned from our leaves in York, PA, to military duty. He was off to Vietnam; I was off to Maine. He was a few weeks from death. Vietnam, of course. 1969. I would go to the war, too, in less than a year. To Danang, then more permanently to Udorn, Thailand, and a tour with the Air Force Aeorspace Rescue and Recovery Service, devoted to the rescue of pilots shot down, usually in their missions to bomb the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Remember, too, Wendell "Puddy" Day, a year ahead of me in school. Unstoppable, it seemed, on the football field. A running back turned Marine sniper. Buried in Gettysburg National Cemetery. Also remember James Manor, my one-time roommate, KIA on 27 March 72. The helicopter, an HH53 Super Jolly Green, in which he was flight engineer exploded in the sky over Cambodia. Remains unrecovered. I wear a KIA/MIA bracelet on my right wrist in his memory. Young people, usually my psychotherapy clients, puzzle over it, although some, suprisingly, know what it is. "Isn't that...?" they usually begin. Yes, I say, encouraged that those yet to be born back then have some regard for the history and the culture of the time. I've written about these three on something called "The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund" virtual wall, a detailed online record of those who died, where and when. I have also lit candles for them in cathedrals. I am this Memorial Day also remembering a colleague of mine who died last week, suddenly, though she was sick with heart failure last autumn. She never looked better than the day before she died. She had returned to work earlier this year. She seemed happier than ever. She was more pleasant than ever. We shared interests in a few things that resonate strongly with me. Northern California, for one. She had grown up there, partially in Martinez, CA, birthplace of Joe DiMaggio, something she had not known until I told her. I'm not sure she was impressed. She would spend her vacations and holidays with family in Northern California, in San Rafael, Marin County, and another spot nearby. She would bring gifts back from her trips, usually the products of the rich growing fields and vineyards of Northern California. Let us live our lives most fully, in part by giving breath to the memories of those who we have known and valued so that they will not be forgotten. I hope I have said enough, but, then, I don't think enough could be said. If there is a place where the dead can be aware, please, just know that I remember and respect you all.