I'm Irish...

... so it's ok to cry. I won't cry for pain, or myself.

But tell me a story of self-sacrifice and love, and I'll leak saltwater.

Today, another warrior has stepped into the clearing at the end of the path. Words are inadequate to praise the man, a boon companion, a brother. Tonight I've been celebrating you, Josh. See you in Valhalla, brother.

Josh Hernandez: "Deport Pedro!". We loved you, brother. Former Marine, man among men. Phenomenal musician and lover of women. Father. You deserve accolades of a hero, but you won't be noticed among the fallen, save for those of us who knew ye. Your mission was to protect those who didn't deserve you.

Time compresses in the sandbox. My two-and-a-half years there were lightened by the two years we knew each other. The fleeting entertainment we all seized in the moment left deep marks far more than any casual stateside relationship could make. We laughed when the mortars came, and we drank illegal beer in bunkers while rockets whirred overhead. We ran around exposed to ridicule and sniper fire for the fuck of it because we were bored. We cross-dressed in lacy red dresses and ran through Baghdad (On`On!) to annoy people because we just don't give a FUCK what a bunch of ragheads think.

I respected you, and measured myself with you as the yardstick.

We love and honor you, and we'll drink with you some day in Valhalla, brother.

I miss you already.