The 4th of July came and went. It started with the Veteran's Memorial in Oconee County, which was stunning. I couldn't believe how many people were there showing their support. I didn't really realize we were going to be a part of the ceremony until I got there-I knew Dad was participating in the laying of the wreath, but didn't expect to be involved. Nevertheless, we were honored to participate.

It was harder than I thought it would be, I suppose because it reminded me so much of Evan's service. When they played TAPS at the end, I knew it was all over. I was especially emotional while reflecting on the simple words that I have heard so many times, but have so much of a greater meaning for me now-

Freedom isn't free.

Even as I heard the guest speaker talk about those families that have made the "ultimate sacrifice", I began to think again of the fact that we were one of those families, even if I still don't believe that. As I gazed off into the distance, I thought of the bravery that Evan and so many of his fellow soldiers demonstrate. I began to think of all the people that I don't perceive as "appreciating" the fact that these soldiers are risking their very LIVES in Operation:Iraqi Freedom, and in past wars, so that we can enjoy the freedoms we have here. Think about that for a moment.

I have to admit that I was not appreciative of that fact until Evan joined the military. I hate to admit it, but it is honest. I think many of us fall into this trap. It's just not something you think about. You get caught up in life and your responsibilities, and just fail to pause and consider it.

I can tell you that after Evan joined the Army, any time we ever went to the airport, Dad never failed to approach any soldier in uniform and thank him for his service. It's something I always wanted to do, but never quite had the courage. Now I consider-do I want to miss this opportunity? I want them to know that Americans appreciate them, especially when so many people seem so vocal about the war, and some that can't differentiate between supporting our troops and supporting this war. In fact, I have had to walk out of many a conversation, because I just couldn't listen to people bash the war.

I have to take this moment to tell you that no one was prouder of Evan than my Dad was, and we were all very proud of him. Dad wore his yellow "support our troops" pin every day: in court, in depositions, and anytime he was wearing anything other than a t-shirt. His pin has now changed to the gold star, the killed in action pin that we all wear, given to families of fallen soldiers by the Army. But there is one time that I will never forget, one time that we were at the airport to pick Evan up when he came home on leave.

He was in his uniform, and we had waited forever for him to come down that escalator at the Hartsfield airport. We were all there, just staring, waiting for him to come into view. All of the sudden, there he was, and Dad just burst into tears. This is questionably, if my memory serves me well, the only time I have ever seen my father cry, with the exception, of course, being when Evan was killed. This had a profound effect on me. I think Mom and I both joked, "Get it together, Dad!"

I'll never forget the day Evan came home after his first deployment. I was ELATED that he was back in the United States. I didn't care that he wasn't in Athens, I was just thankful to have him back in the States. I remember thanking God over and over, praying, thanking him for keeping him safe.

I looked back over some emails I had sent to Evan a few days ago while cleaning out my account. One of them struck me in particular. It had been sent on Evan's first deployment, after the two soldiers in his unit had been killed. I told him that I couldn't imagine how bad things were over there, but that I knew God was in control and that he would see him through. And I thought to myself...How I wished I could believe that now.

And I do, I really do, believe that God is in control, and I believe He will see me through. I suppose yesterday, and today, were just hard days and nights, and I will certainly have those.

And perhaps joy will come in the morning.

Remember who gives us independence

I wanted to share with you all who haven't read it, a piece that my father wrote for the Oconee Enterprise, which appeared in the paper today, in honor of Independence Day:

On the afternoon of January 28th, 2008, I was in my law office reviewing year-end financial information when my assistant came into the conference room and told me I was needed in the reception area. When I saw two uniformed Army officers, I knew that a military family's worst nightmare had come true: my 21 year-old son, Cpl. Evan A. Marshall, had been killed earlier that day by a roadside bomb in Mosul, Iraq.

Evan entered the Army within a week of his 18th birthday in June, 2004. His mother and I did not encourage him to volunteer for military service, but Evan wanted to do something that was difficult and challenging, and believed that the Army would allow him to serve his country and would be a benefit to him on a personal level.

He volunteered to serve in the Infantry, and was assigned to a mechanized infantry unit stationed in Ft. Carson, Colorado.

He was initially deployed to Iraq, in December 2005, where he served for approximately one year. At no time did he voice any complaints about hardships or dangers. He was certainly aware of the risks, and his unit suffered casualties during his first deployment. In fact, Evan's friend, Staff Sgt. Marion Flint, Jr., who was originally from Athens, was killed in an I.E.D. incident in May, 2006, along with another one of Evan's friends and comrades. This explosion occurred literally in front of the Bradley Fighting Vehicle which Evan was driving during a patrol.

Evan left Ft. Carson for his second deployment to Iraq in early December, 2007. His Battalion was assigned to Mosul.

He and four of his friends and comrades were in the lead Humvee on a combat reconnaissance patrol to capture al-Qaeda leaders when a massive bomb buried in the roadway exploded, killing all five soldiers instantly.

The other four Humvees involved in this operation were then fired upon by insurgents from Mosques and other locations in the vicinity using rocket-propelled grenades, machine guns, and mortars. Evan's fellow soldiers lived the Army value that day of never leaving a fallen comrade and instead of fleeing for safety, gave battle until help arrived and the insurgents could be driven away. We are in awe of their courage.

We attended a memorial service for Evan and his fallen comrades at Ft. Carson on Feb. 13, and met the families of other soldiers who were killed in this incident.

The soldiers with whom Evan served during his second deployment were continuing to fulfill their responsiblities in Iraq, but we heard indirectly from them and met with a number of soldiers who served with Evan during his first deployment.

We heard stories of how Evan loved to give candy and dollar bills to Iraqi children, how he took pride in doing his full duty as a soldier, how he was fiercely competitive but a person who would seek out opportunities to welcome and assist newcomers to his unit, and how he contributed to the morale of his fellow soldiers with his smile and light-hearted comments, in his humble and modest way.

My family and I are very proud of Evan's service, and want this piece to honor him. Evan knew that he was deeply loved by his family and by many others, and that we considered him to be a hero.

As we pay tribute to him and honor his memory, we want readers to perhaps more fully understand that all of the persons who are serving us in this time of war are heroes.

As a nation, we ask a great deal of those who wear the uniform. We ask for their time, their talent, and their energy. We ask for their loyalty and their dedication. Although we do not like to think about it or talk about it, we also ask them to risk their lives in service to their country, and many do so unhesitatingly and willingly, just as many have done so throughout our nation's history.

As we look forward to another independence day, let us pause to reflect upon those to whom we owe so much for the freedoms we continue to enjoy in this country. Let us find ways to honor our veterans, passed and present, for their service and sacrifice.

On a personal note, we want to thank the Oconee County community, for the wonderful expressions of love, comfort, and support that we received when our hearts were broken. We will never forget your kindness.

In the process of moving back into my house, I came across the newspaper articles from Evan's death that I had put aside. Right there on top, the picture that I grew to dislike so much, the one of me that landed itself front and center of the Banner Herald, maybe because everyone kept calling it a "beautiful picture", and to me, there was nothing beautiful about it.

To me, it was just sad. A picture of me lying on the casket of my brother. I remember asking my roommate that night if it was "appropriate" that I went up to the casket. I think I even said something like, "watch that be on the front page tomorrow."

Some things never change. Here I was, worried about what others might deem appropriate or not, what others were thinking of me. I came to the conclusion that it was appropriate for me, and what I felt at the time, and that made it perfectly all right. I didn't know I was going up there until I did it, and all I wanted in that moment was to be close to my brother. I longed for that.

I was talking to a friend about that picture recently, and I told him that I disliked it and that I felt it was an invasion of privacy. I told him it was fine to have pictures of Evan and I together, but I didn't like the pictures of my family in mourning, broadcast for the world to see. As if we weren't in the spotlight already.

But he told me that because so many just can't imagine what it's like, having never been through it, that maybe it gave some glimpse into the effect that this war is having on families. I considered it a moment, and agreed. So many people seem detached from this war, and this certainly brings it home to all those who know our family, even those who don't.

I wonder if I'm ever going to wake up. I reread the article, and looked at that last name, "Marshall". I'm still in shock. Will it ever really feel like this has happened? I can't answer that, I simply don't know. Mom said something in the beginning that I still feel. She said my head knows that Evan's gone, but my heart just won't believe it. So true. It's easier to think he's away at war. He wasn't supposed to be here. I still think he's going to call one day, or maybe just show up and walk through my parent's door, and then this nightmare would finally be over.

I had a dream last night, only this time, Evan was a little boy. I don't remember much about it, just that he was playing among friends, but I do remember he was wearing a "Whit Davis" t-shirt (he went to school there). I always thought he was just the most precious little boy. All kids are pretty cute, but there was something special about him.

I watched "Walk the Line" a few days ago with my Mom, and a line that he said struck me-June Carter said something about dedicating a song to his brother, and Johnny said that actually his brother had passed. She said she was sorry, and he said that it was ok, and he actually hadn't talked about him in some time. He said that he talked about his brother a lot at first, but that he felt people were tired of hearing about it, and so he stopped.

This was so sad to me, I suppose because so often I feel people are tired of hearing me talk about Evan, so I've stopped for the most part. That may not be the case, perhaps it's just how I feel because I've talked about it so much. Of course sometimes it's easier not to talk about it, but often I need to. Getting it out here helps too.

I went out to the cemetary yesterday for the first time in a while. I took my new Coldplay CD and parked my car right there on the street, and played through the whole CD as I sat in my car. Sometimes I am comforted going out there, and other times I have trouble stopping the tears. Coldplay was one of his favorite bands, and it's one of mine too.

Tomorrow is July 4th, and as was the case with Memorial Day, it has a whole new meaning for me and for my family. We are going to the dedication of the Veteran's Memorial in Oconee tomorrow morning, which they have asked us to participate in. I had several options to spend time with friends that afternoon, but I want to be with my parents, and we're heading to the lake for the day after that, with some dear friends.

And as we do every day we remain on this earth, we honor him tomorrow, and the sacrifice that he made. And we recognize that this is a temporary separation, and that we will all be together again one joyous day. And we celebrate the 4th together too, and remember that Evan would want us to live our lives fully, and in his honor.

Here I am, in the quiet of my room at home, listening to music my Mom describes as "mournful". I moved back to my house with my roommates today. It was more difficult than I thought.

I step back into my room. This is the place that I got the phone call. The place that I stood, hysterically crying into the phone, desperately trying not to upset little Jack, but not able to control asking Dad over and over again, Is it Evan? Is it Evan? This is also the last time I slept peacefully as I rested with Jack that day. The last time that I put my head on my pillow and didn't think about the moment that I.E.D. detonated in Iraq, killing my brother, along with 4 other brave soldiers. How vividly that day replays in my mind-over and over again.

I feel guilty. But as my roommate reminds me, I feel guilty about a lot of things. Still, I feel that I have a responsibility to my parents, to be sure they are going to be ok, to take care of them, to be sure I am there in every moment of difficulty they may have. But I do have to live my life too, and eventually I was going to have to leave the comfort of my parent's house. I knew I was going to have a hard time with it, so I figured it was best to go ahead and do it. The more time I spend here, hopefully the more comfortable I will be here. But it's still very hard.

After all, it is just me now. I have the sole responsiblity, I feel, as my parent's only child, to take care of them. It's a very alone feeling, too. I long for someone else to walk with me on this path, and I walk alone. Of course, I have many friends, but there is no one else in the world that was Evan's sibling. Just me. A book someone gave me describes how it's different to lose a sibling and have others than to be the only one left. And it is different in a lot of ways.

I was at a wedding this weekend and ended up striking up a conversation with a man sitting next to me at the reception as I picked at my salad. Conversation was flowing, and I don't remember what we were saying, but I could tell it was coming. That get-to-know-you question that I dislike so much, that I don't know how to answer. What was once a simple question has now become so complicated. He asked me if I had any siblings.

I immediately said "No" and I immediately felt horribly guilty about it. It's just that at that moment, I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to go through the awkwardness of telling them that yes, I did have a brother, but he was killed in Iraq.

I felt so guilty, in fact, that I later brought up in conversation that I did in fact have a brother, and explained the situation. People don't know what to say. I think I got the standard, "I'm sorry", or something along those lines. I will be certain that people remember Evan, his memory, and his sacrifice, and that people remember him. I will tell people about him, and I will go about answering that question differently the next time it is asked. I'm learning as I go along, I suppose.

I hope she doesn't mind that I quote her, but I recently read on a friend's blog, "We still celebrate, too. If you wait until life is perfect to do so, you’ll never get around to it. There’s always something to be stressed or sad about. But there’s usually something to celebrate as well". How true I find this to be. Grief and suffering comes, but joy comes too. I remember how guilty I felt the first time I laughed. All of the sudden, out of the blue, in the midst of hysterical tears, someone said something, and I just couldn't help but laugh out loud. I felt so horribly about it. But then I ask myself, how would Evan want me to react? Would he wish that I never laughed again, or want me to stop living?

I ask myself this often. I think about if I had been the one to die, and I think about how I would want Evan to live his life. And I would never want my death to destroy him. All I ever wanted was the absolute best for him, and I know how much he wanted the best for me. In fact, he was always concerned, afraid I was worrying too much.

So whenever I don't feel like picking myself up, or when I don't feel like getting out of bed, or when it just hurts to breathe, I think to myself: What would Evan want? How would he want me to live my life?

And the answer becomes strangely clear.

I had a dream last night. I wonder if I cried in my sleep, as I woke up with a splitting headache and wet pillow. I didn't even know that was possible.

Evan was stationed at a base somewhere, I guess in the U.S. because we were picking him up. We drove to the gate and back home several times to get him, unsure of what the problem was. Everyone else was picking up their loved ones, but Evan wasn't there. My parents finally went home, but I took off on foot to pick him up. I decided he was coming with me.

A very nice man greeted me at the gate, but this time he was walking towards me. I asked him if my brother was alive, and he told me yes, but he couldn't come home.

Evan finally came out. He told me he couldn't stay, that he had to go back, but he wanted me to know he was ok. I begged him not to go back, pleaded with him. I held onto him as tightly as I could, tugging and yanking his arm with all my strength, tears streaming down my face. And just like that, as quickly as he came, he was gone again.

I remember asking the man what was going on, and through my hysterical tears, I begged them not to hurt him. I don't know why I thought they would hurt him, but I was terrified something awful was happening. The gentle man put his hand on my back, and I collapsed in his arms.

Then I woke up. I was still tired, but I didn't want to go back to sleep for fear of another dream, so I forced myself up.

I woke up into reality. Just Mom, Dad, and I now, and a picture of Evan on the table in my parent's room at the beach. The waking is the hardest part- dreams about my brother are bittersweet. I love the feeling of being near him, and dreams are so real that I almost feel he's alive again, and then I wake up and feel like I just found out that my brother's gone again.

And I'm upset, and I'm mad- angry that my family has to go though this, jealous of the families that get their loved ones back from war, shocked all over again that an I.E.D. detonated in Iraq, and the person on the news this time was really my brother.

There's a saying that time heals all things. It isn't true. Time will never take this away. Time can heal many things, I am certain, but this is something time can neither heal or erase. I do believe that Christ can heal all things, and I am trusting him to do that.

But in that single moment on January 28th, my life forever changed.

Monday was 5 months.

Sunday was Father's Day. I tried to make it special for Dad, but I was never great at special days like that. Evan was. He was always good at remembering dates. I remember him asking what I wanted for my birthday last year. I replied with my usual "please don't get me anything." He always insisted anyway.

Maybe this is unrelated, but I'm all over the place these days. I was down at the beach earlier today, and took my shoes off so I could feel the sand beneath my feet. This reminded me of a moment in the first couple weeks.

I had stepped out of the side door at my house one day that I was just hysterical and didn't want to be around all the people anymore. My Aunt had been feeding me Xanax that day to keep me calm. I was barefoot and she told me to step outside, where she followed. She told me to feel the grass beneath my feet, and my response was that I didn't feel anything. I really couldn't. I didn't feel alive. Its like you are on the outside, looking in. A very surreal, out of body feeling.

A friend I have made since, who lost a brother in Iraq, said he has felt the same thing, in the sense that nothing affects him like it used to. Job changes, break ups, things that used to get him down seem so insignificant now. He doesn't feel things like he used to. A lot of times I don't feel things like I used to either. It scares me sometimes.

One thing I told Dad in his Father's Day card is that I can't imagine going through this without his love, support, and strength. I don't remember much about the prayer, as the day was a blur, but I do remember that right as we were about to walk out the door of our house, my Dad about to bury his son, we all joined hands, friends and family, and he said the most beautiful prayer.

I was in awe of his strength and faith in God, under the worst imaginable circumstances. One thing is certain- I couldn't have made it through the last few months without either of my parents. Mom and I promised each other the first day or two, we were going to get through this and take care of ourselves and each other. We have to remind each other of that sometimes.

I didn't sleep at all the first night. I was up and down. I tried to rest, but i didn't sleep 1 minute that night. At around 4:30, I went down to my parents room and sat in the chair, watching the sun come up, thinking about the day ahead, wondering how any of us would get through it. I could hear them breathing in their sleep, and I was so grateful and comforted by the fact that they were sleeping. I finally crawled between them.

Sometime later that morning we got a phone call, one of many, asking what they could do. I remember Dad saying just to pray for us, and for the other soldiers still deployed. All I could think of was that Evan was gone. I couldn't believe he had the strength to tell someone to pray for other soldiers in that moment.

I think back to those first few words I uttered- "I can't do this." I truly can't do it alone. But with help from God, my parents, my friends, I can do this. Even when it seems I can't, I am doing it.

Just when I think I'm over a hump, I feel like I'm back to square one.

I voiced my frustration to a friend of mine recently. That all I want is to get better. I want to get better, I want to make my parents better, I don't want us all to be sad anymore. He reminded me that this is a process, and it may take years for me to feel better and back to "normal"-rather, adjusted to this new normal. He told me to be patient and ask God for help.

It is difficult to be patient in this situation, but he's absolutely right. I am not going to feel better overnight, that's just not the way it works. As desperately as I want to, it just doesn't happen that way.

The last day we were on the cruise, I was laying out on the deck and ended up talking to one of the friends we made on the ship. Apparently I came off as having "only child syndrome"(imagine that!) and he asked me several times if I was an only child. I guess he could tell I was avoiding the question, but he was persistent so I finally told him the situation. I forget sometimes that there are people that out there that don't know (of course). I told him what happened very matter of factly, and he told me he was sorry. That's all I really need to hear-I thought if one more person told me it was God's will or to "snap out of it", I would go nuts. Just a simple, "I'm sorry" is sufficient-not rationalizing, or telling me "he's in a better place". (I'm really glad he's in a better place. It would be nice to have him for 60 more years first. Call me selfish, but I want him here). I kept it together, then had my meltdown later on the deck with Colleen. I think it's good that I'm getting it out though.

In the course of our conversation and through my tears (and me telling her for the 800th time that I just can't believe he is really gone), she asked me if I could feel Evan with me. As much as I desperately want to feel him with me, I told her no. Then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend of mine, Lori, after my wreck about a month and a half ago.

She told me that she didn't want to upset me, but that she knew Evan was with me in that wreck, keeping me safe. I believe that. Maybe it's crazy, but I don't really care. I believe that God was with me, and I believe that Evan was with me that night. So many what if's..If I had been in my Civic with no side airbags, I would certainly have been severely injured at least. She nailed me in my driver's side in an SUV. It's a very good thing I was in my Volvo.

It's hard to believe I walked away with a bump on my head. No, it's not-it's confirmation that I'm still here for a purpose, that God has me here for a PURPOSE. That he wants me to feel true happiness and joy and peace again, even when I don't believe that, even when it's hard to see through all the pain and suffering, even when profound sadness overtakes me, even though I may not see it now.

And if I have to remind myself of that every single day, so be it.

I overheard Mom on the phone the other day talking to her Mom, I believe. She has been talking about retiring early, a few years shy of her 30 years in teaching. But she was saying that nothing brought her more comfort than the feeling that she had helped another "gold star" family (that's what they call those of us who have lost a family member to war). She also said that maybe this was her mission, to help others through it. In that very moment, I felt so proud of her.

If you had asked me before how I thought Mom would have reacted to Evan's death, I would have told you she would be checked out for the rest of her life. I worried about it a lot before Evan died. How she would react if the unthinkable happened. She was always my main concern.

Ironically, she has done more living in the last four months than the last four years. She goes to sleepovers, she has lunch with my girlfriends and I, we have friends over for dinners almost every weekend, she helps other families. I asked her the other day if she wanted to go see Sex and the City with me after lunch(as I wanted to see it again), and was amused to learn that she already had plans to see it the next night with Dad and another couple.

I mentioned it to her the other day, that I felt she had been living a lot more lately. She agreed.

She assuredly has her moments. She cries, sometimes she cancels plans because she's down, sometimes she needs to talk about it, sometimes she needs a distraction too. But she's PRESENT too, for the first time in a very long time. I'm so grateful.

I've had my moments myself. One thing I have realized, through the tears and the suffering and the laughter, is how much fun I have hanging out with my girlfriends.

Sometimes you just have to laugh. I was moping around in the first week or so, sitting around my house one day that there were 200 people here. Mom called the center of our living room the "mosh pit". That whole first week, it was me sitting in front of the fireplace, surrounded my 10 of my closest friends. One day I was wearing a dress, and got up. Apparently I came close to flashing everyone, and one of my friends said, "I know you're grieving, but you're going to ruin your reputation, Alice". I couldn't help but laugh. Maybe someone looking on might have thought that was odd, given what was happening. But you have to have those moments of sanity-if I didn't, I would have gone crazy by now.

I just got back from a 5 day cruise to Mexico with three of my friends, and we had the best time. The beach there is incredibly beautiful(see above), and I actually got to practice some of my Spanish! We talked about life and relationships and enjoyed just spending time together.

I wouldn't have it any other way. Maybe I'm living again too.

After adding this song to my blog just now, I started thinking about some of the lyrics. It's from the movie Bucket List I believe, which is about two terminally ill men who escape from a cancer ward and head off on a road trip with a wish list of to-dos before they die:


Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Then never to say what you need to say again
Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open
Say what you need to say -John Mayer

I find this part in particular to be so true. Maybe I'm still on my plug about how we often, myself included, fail to tell people how we feel when none of us are promised tomorrow. How we hold onto grudges, how we are quick to judge others, how we are slow to forgive, how we can't just LET IT GO. How we fail to tell other people how we feel, because we are scared. Because it makes us nervous. I've always believed that at the end of the day, it's better to say too much than not to say what we need to say, whatever type relationship it may be.

I'm so thankful that I told Evan how I felt, what I needed to say. He never specifically addressed my comments when he wrote me emails back. He was always humble, so I think it made him uncomfortable when I told him he was a hero. But he read them, and he knew. He knew how much I loved him, he knew that he was my hero, and he knew how much I missed him because I told him every chance I got.

For that I am grateful.

But this hasn't always been the case in my relationships. So I'm resolving not to let another moment pass by without saying what I need to say.

Dad has connected with several Dads that have also lost sons to the war in Iraq. It's that "club" that none of us want to be in. He has connected with one in particular, in Atlanta, who lost his son in Iraq several years ago. This man told him that one of his friends had asked him early on, if he had the choice to erase all memory of his son, thus the pain that went along with it, if he would choose to do that.

My initial thought was, of course not. How could anyone even ask this question? The point, of course, is that by erasing their memory and their existence, the accompanying pain from their loss would also be erased.

This reminded me of a movie many of you have probably seen, "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". A couple undergo a procedure to erase each other from their memories when the relationship goes bad. It's very interesting.

I can't remember who it was, but someone said something in the beginning about how the closest thing they could compare this to was "grieving" over a divorce, over the loss of that relationship. I remember thinking this was really odd initially, and of course she included that it was totally different and couldn't compare, just the closest thing she could relate to. I remember thinking how bizarre it was for her to compare a death to a divorce, but when I thought about it, there are some parallels.

In both cases, someone is not in your life anymore. Someone that you love, someone that you've gotten used to having in your life. It's never easy. It's hard to lose someone that you care about, through death or just the loss of that relationship.

I've been pretty devastated over several breakups in my life, many times over situations that I've ended things too. At the time, it feels you will never "get over it". You have that void that it seems will never be filled. But I've found healing through other friendships and relationships. I think God puts people in our lives, in our path, that we need at just the right times.

Of course, breakups are nothing in comparison to death. But there's a saying, which I find a bit cheesy, but true. It relates to both:

It's better to have loved and lost than never loved at all.

I wouldn't choose to erase memories of anyone, for anything. I would never take back memories of friendships and relationships that didn't work out, because I have a lot of wonderful memories with great people, that still make me smile when I think about them.

And I would never, ever choose to erase my memories of Evan.

I will always have them, and that's something no bomb could ever destroy.

I made it a good while yesterday without crying. The entire day, in fact. I had a decent time at dinner and even laughed some. When I got back to my parents and walked in the door, my grandmother was on the phone. She was calling to tell us that Evan's picture and a thing about him was going to be on Nancy Grace, in the 10:00 hour.

I was going to a friend's but told him we would have to flip at around 10:45.

There I sat, staring at my brother's face on CNN. Evan Marshall, American Hero. Quiet, witty. Leaves behind parents, Drew and Sheila, and sister Alice. I think the media aspect of Evan's death adds to the whole dream-like feeling(I'm sure everyone is tired of hearing me talk about how this feels like a dream, but it's true).

I joked that I was "famous"(since my name had been on CNN). This may seem odd to some people, and of course, it's not really about my name being on TV. This is my defense mechanism. I joke so I don't cry.

They also had a video of a soldier getting the medal of honor. McGinnis, an American Soldier, was perched in the gunner's hatch of a Humvee when a grenade sailed past him and into the truck where four other soldiers sat. He shouted a warning to the others, then jumped on the grenade. The grenade, which was lodged near the vehicle's radio, blew up and killed him.

They said McGinnis easily could have jumped out of the truck and saved himself. In a split second decision, he jumped on the grenade and lost his life to save 4 others. At 19 years old.

I don't understand the kind of bravery these young soldiers exude because I don't have it.

I remember when the Army recruiter came to our house. Mom joked that I made a beeline up the stairs, because I sure wasn't being recruited for the Army. I don't have it in me. We got a letter from him shortly after Evan's death. I felt some anger towards him, but I've let it go. I think I just wanted someone to blame, and he seemed like an easy target. Of course, this hurts no one but myself.

To be an American soldier and put your life on the line day after day takes unexplainable courage. I feel certain Evan thought about his own death, as I'm sure all of the soldiers there do. I can't imagine watching people die, hearing of other fallen soldiers..and not thinking about it. Two from his own platoon were killed right in front of him on his first deployment. Someone I communicated with shortly after Evan died sent me a letter he had written to his parents if he didn't come home. I've heard of many soldiers doing this.

We never talked about anything he saw over there. He didn't tell us, and we didn't ask. I didn't really want to know to be honest. I still think about it sometimes, and wonder. But I think it's better that I don't know. My mind is a battlefield.

The tears finally came late last night. I couldn't stop them for the life of me. I don't know how I held it together as long as I did, as I can only hold it in for so long. Usually I cry when I'm alone, but I happened to be in the company of a friend. I found myself apologizing over and over again for crying, as I usually do when I cry in front of someone. I guess that's why I do it alone. I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable, and I KNOW they don't know what to say, so it's just easier and less complicated if I do it alone. A lot of times I don't need anyone to say anything. I think people mistakenly think they need to say something when sometimes there just aren't words. I guess it depends on the person. In this case, there was no awkwardness, and I was actually quite grateful to have their company in that moment.

I'm frustrated. I'm struggling. All I want to do is "get better", and not be sad anymore, but that's not how it works. I guess I just have to pick myself up and keep surviving until I feel like living again.

I wanted to share a few of my favorite pictures today, and add a few things about the Memorial Fund for those who don't know about it. Our dear friends, Lori and Ross Brown, have established a fund in Evan's name. 100% of the proceeds will be used for educational scholarships for the kids of fallen servicemen and women. Benefit concert, golf tournament, BBQ to follow. I will keep everyone posted. The website is evanmarshallmemorial.org.