I wanted to share this poem I wrote shortly after learning of Cris's passing. It was a way for  me to process and honor their spirit:

Olive Trees

I remember you, all green hazel fire and bright mischief

And I will remember you, soft soul and lion heart

You never left the fight

And it never left you

There is no word that can resolve losing you in the battlefield of soul,

No salve that can make sense of a brave one falling

I remember you and me and your ex-girlfriend snuggled in bed together, wounded but tender, innocent and perfect

I remember this March

you telling me about the times you think you should have died 

Standing mere feet from an IED

Physics defying near collisions on your bike

The helicopter

Maybe that was your guardian angel, I said

"Maybe. Maybe I did die. And I woke up in another timeline where I still live."

You seemed okay with it

That some version of you was resigned to leaving us early

Maybe you thought this was all borrowed time

Maybe it is

Maybe that's what you were trying to tell me that night.

Maybe you woke up in another timeline

I'm now in the one where we grew apart and you almost came and visited again, but it was too late and I was too tired, and I thought we had more time

Maybe that's what this is now

at least

that's what I have to make it so your departure doesn't feel like just another cold link in a growing chain of young dead friends

Maybe that's how you would want me to think of you 

Not just a comrade fallen in the jaws of the Nothing

But one who went out striving

one who left burning lip marks on life's body

and woke up again, somewhere else

somewhere your light still shines

When I saw you last March

And we reconnected, laughing, and talking about visions for the future, I assumed it was the rekindling of a friendship that would burn for many more years 

It was actually goodbye

I don't know who will plant your olive trees, but I know someone will 

Maybe I will.

With all my love

Cara

"Grief expressed out loud for someone we have lost, or a country or home we have lost, is in itself the greatest praise we could ever give them. Grief is praise, because it is the natural way love honors what it misses."

Martin Prechtel,