The Dead are always with us. The whiff of scent, the echo of voice. We in the West are slowly returning to a more intentional veneration of our Beloved Dead, our Forebears, our Ancestors. And today is set aside on our ragged national calendar to remember those who died in war. I choose to remember, too, those who came home fragmented and lost, bearing wounds invisible. They died at the Somme, though they came home. They died in North Africa, though they came home. They died in Viet Nam, though they came home. There are many deaths and many ways of killing. When we as a nation choose to send the young into battle for reasons economic, we take on a burden that is too great for us ever to lift. One day can never be enough for the magnitude of the loss or the weight of the collective grief.