A soldier died in Iraq, a few days ago. I found out because the soldier was a blogger I read fairly regularly on Obsidian Wings. He wrote well, reasonably and with civility. His commentaries were interesting. They were worth reading. He was a good man who cared deeply and communicated that caring.
He also understood the possibilities of being in a theater of war, and what they could mean. He wrote an entry to be published in the event of his death. I quote a bit bit from his posthumous post:
What I don't want this to be is a chance for me, or anyone else, to be maudlin. I'm dead. That sucks, at least for me and my family and friends. But all the tears in the world aren't going to bring me back, so I would prefer that people remember the good things about me rather than mourning my loss. (If it turns out a specific number of tears will, in fact, bring me back to life, then by all means, break out the onions.) I had a pretty good life, as I noted above. Sure, all things being equal I would have preferred to have more time, but I have no business complaining with all the good fortune I've enjoyed in my life. So if you're up for that, put on a little 80s music (preferably vintage 1980-1984), grab a Coke and have a drink with me. If you have it, throw 'Freedom Isn't Free' from the Team America soundtrack in; if you can't laugh at that song, I think you need to lighten up a little. I'm dead, but if you're reading this, you're not, so take a moment to enjoy that happy fact.
I will make no point. No argument. No plea. Someone who moved me with his writings is dead and I am sad, angry and reminded that we get a sorely limited tenure on this rock before we are a long time gone.
Valhalla. The Summerlands. Nirvana. Heaven.
Wherever you are, Andy, thank you and Rest In Peace.