THE XXII
22
That's how many
we were told to count.
As if they were numbers.
As if you could put
twenty-two lives
on a page
and call it a day.
But
1
was somebody's son.
Somebody's little boy
who once fell asleep
holding his mother's hand.
2
was somebody's daughter.
Somebody's baby
who grew up
and learned how to carry
a rifle
before she learned
how to put down
the memories.
3
was somebody's husband.
Somebody's wife.
Somebody's
I'll see you when I get home.
4
was somebody's father.
A little voice
still asking,
"When is Daddy coming back?"
And nobody
knows how to answer.
5
was somebody's brother.
The person who knew
every stupid story
from childhood.
The one who could make
everybody laugh.
The one whose name
still comes up
at Christmas.
6
was somebody's best friend.
The one who said,
"I've got you."
And meant it.
Even when
he needed somebody
to say it to him.
7
came home.
But the war
came home with him.
It slept beside him.
Sat at the dinner table.
Followed him
into crowded rooms.
Waited for him
in the dark.
8
learned that sometimes
the hardest battle
is the one nobody
can see.
9
said,
"I'm fine."
Because that's what
we teach people to say
when the truth
is too heavy.
10
smiled.
Went to work.
Answered the phone.
Made plans.
And nobody knew
how close
the edge was.
11
had a photograph
somewhere.
Maybe smiling.
Maybe in uniform.
Maybe standing beside
people who loved him
and never imagined
they would one day
be looking at that picture
instead of his face.
12
was somebody's
favorite person.
Not a veteran.
Not a statistic.
Not 12.
A person.
13
had a name.
14
had a laugh.
15
had a bad day.
16
had a favorite song.
17
had somebody
waiting for a phone call.
18
had somebody
who would have answered
at 3 a.m.
19
had somebody
who still wishes
they had known
what to say.
20
had another morning
they thought
they would see.
21
thought the pain
would never end.
But pain lies.
It tells you
tomorrow will look
exactly like today.
It tells you
you are a burden.
It tells you
nobody will notice
if you're gone.
It lies.
And 22
was not a number.
22
was a chair
that stayed empty.
22
was a phone
that stopped ringing.
22
was a mother
who learned
how to cry quietly.
22
was a father
who still checks
the driveway.
22
was a child
who will grow up
with memories
instead of new ones.
22
was a uniform
that will never
be worn again.
22
was a birthday
that will never
receive a phone call.
22
was someone
who believed
there was no way out.
And maybe
that's where
we failed them.
Not because
they weren't strong.
Not because
they didn't fight.
They fought.
God,
they fought.
They fought
for us.
They fought
beside us.
Some of them
fought battles
we will never understand.
And when they came home,
we asked them
if they were okay.
They said,
"Yeah."
And we believed them.
So don't just
remember the 22.
Remember the one
sitting beside you.
The one who got quiet.
The one who stopped calling.
The one who drinks alone.
The one who says
they don’t sleep anymore.
The one who laughs
when you ask
if something's wrong.
The one who says,
"Don't worry about me."
Worry about them.
Call them.
Sit with them.
Ask again.
And when they say,
"I'm fine,"
don't always
let fine
be the end
of the conversation.
Because somewhere
there is a veteran
who doesn't need
a speech.
Doesn't need
a medal.
Doesn't need
someone to tell him
to be stronger.
They may only need
one person
to stay.
One person
to listen.
One person
to say,
"You don't have to carry this alone."
So tonight,
don't count to 22.
Count the people
still here.
1.
2.
3.
Keep counting.
Keep calling.
Keep showing up.
Keep asking.
Keep listening.
Keep them here.
Because the most important
number
isn't the number
we lost.
It's
**the one
we still have time
to save.**