A toast of blood, remembrance for the fallen.

I am melancholy this evening. It grew from a mellow mood this morning when circumstances reminded me of the date. Silly mundane things like paying bills and doing my duty at the dayjob brought it to my attention.

Today marked the twentieth anniversary of the Battle of Mogadishu. Shughart and Gordon will never be unseated from their Throne of Badassery, at least not in my mind.

A toast of blood from a writer's cluttered workspace.
I spent much of my mental energy today recognizing all the small things, all the privileges, that are encompassed by living, and growing old, that are largely taken for granted. Be they irritations, or the flaring light of sunset, or the thousand shades of sunset as fall colors blush to life in a tree. Or Mike, who's learned a new trick of rolling over and now flops on the floor like a dead fish, without prompting, at the merest scent of bacon treats.

And so I am melancholy, though grateful, and offer up a toast of blood (Bull's Blood, mind, not actual O+ or anything) for all the fallen tonight. For all the fallen, but especially for all those who've stood shoulder to shoulder with their brothers and shed blood or given their lives for them.

I've always believed that the best way to honor the dead is by living and cherishing each breath. I may not succeed each day, but it's what I strive for. But for tonight, the melancholy is welcome.