I’m Sean. We’ve never met, but I love you. I’m Sonny and Maryann’s grandson and Charlene’s oldest. I don’t know whether to say “Thank You, but I’m sorry.” or, “I’m sorry, but thank You”.

Thank you for being a good father to Maryann and Toni. I’ve only heard glowing reports. I know that you and Sonny got along well. I know that his father died early, and I believe you helped fill a part of that hole. Popop was my absolute boy for much of my life, so thank you for helping my guy out. Any friend of Sonny’s is a friend of mine.

I’ve always known that Popop was a crier. I’d like to think I get it from him (I had that “tough guys don’t cry” nonsense squashed at a very young age). I’m told that the first time many of Sonny’s children saw him weep was when he gathered them all around to tell them of your passing.

I’ve just finished “Helmet for My Pillow” and “War Is a Racket”. Those books made me think of you… Thank you so much for crossing the Pacific when the entire world was on fire… but I’m sorry for what it cost.

I have seen your marksmanship qualifications, so I know that you were neither cook nor scribe. In modern terms, you would be called a trigger-puller, a body-dropper. You were in the mud with the Boys. This is not to disparage the terrifying sacrifices of other men or women (every marine a rifleman) but to solemnly admit that I know you were generally covered in dirt and waiting to die while you fitfully dreamed of your girls back home. Part of you probably hoped for the cold embrace of a shell at times.

I don’t think it was your personal style, but I heard youse guys tore up Australia. I also heard that the good people of that old penal colony were more than happy to entertain a little criminal mischief in exchange for the defeat of the Japanese Empire. It has led to the rise of an American Imperialism all its own, but you did the best you could with what was in front of your face.

I heard the war was hard on you even after the guns stopped. As someone familiar with violence in the most pedestrian of ways, I know that there is no victor. There are only those who no longer have to suffer the burden of memory. I just get to feel cool when someone notices my banged-up ears. You had scars that no bandage can cover. They don’t make medicine for memories.

I promise you I took good care of Maryann when she was sick. It wasn’t easy, but that was Sonny’s (and your) girl. You take care of your boy’s girl. She passed at home without fear. Your pictures were on the wall. They’re in good hands. She adored you.

Whenever I come out with a quick one-liner I tell people I get it from my grandfather, but I’d like to think some of your side found its way into my veins. I think of the strength it must have taken to return home and still be a loving father and husband.

Don’t be nice, be good. Nice is harmless, but there is a bravery in goodness, a determination to not let the dirty parts of the world take the light from you. The ability to leave parts of yourself on bloody beaches and jungles but still return and be the kind of man your daughters coo over more than half a century later. I hope I can be half as strong. Polska mozna.

Always faithful,

Your great-grandson