The funeral has just ended. A maelstrom of dirt swirls around me as the black hearse pulls up to the burial site. I am wearing a white long-sleeve shirt with a black coat. My shoes are black. My tie is black. Black birds perch in the swaying mesquite branches above, whispering their tales of sorrow. Of newfound widows, clad in black veils. Of priests and ministers, dressed in black garb and metal crucifixes. As the casket is lowered into the ground, I see its black edge, but more than that, I see the deep red, the angelic white, the patriotic blue that is draped over the final resting place of this soldier, veteran, and hero. Everything is black today, save the symbol of purity and innocence, of hardiness and valor, of vigilance, perseverance, and justice. It is fitting: while the polished black casket symbolizes the death of one who took up arms for these things, the glorious Red, White, and Blue means that the values the man inside fought for, live on. Today, I lost my role model, my hero. Today, I lost my grandfather. But I have not lost his history.

Ever since I could remember, my grandfather would tell me his war stories. Of the time that he walked amongst the smoldering ruins of Dresden. When he would flirt with the voluptuous, blue-eyed frauleins of Berlin. And finally, of the journey across the glittering green Atlantic, to the quaint little town in Texas. He told me of his time in veterans school, and how he graduated valedictorian of his class. He told me about when he met the love of his life at the neighborhood grocery store. The way her eyes smiled across the register, the way her skirt flitted around her knees as she turned to bag his groceries, the way their hands and eyes slowly met as they reached for the same paper bag. And the rest is history.

I can still remember my last conversation with my grandfather, my last glimpse into a life that stretched from the aftermath of World War II to the first and second invasions of Iraq. Usually, a light shone in his eyes as he regaled me with stories of the good times he had with his brothers in arms. His voice would rise and fall along with the action of the story, and he would wave his arms and gesture with his hands, always outfitted in a white T-shirt, plaid shorts, and white Nike walking shoes that dated back to the ’80s.

However, this last conversation was different. The light in his eyes was fading, replaced by a hollow, solemn gaze. He began his story with the words: “My only grandson. We are blessed …” He went on to say that our family had done well after the war. He hadn’t ever seen major combat, and had come home unscathed. “There have been some who were not as lucky as we were …”

He proceeded to tell me stories I had never heard before. Of his brother who died before his boots hit the sand at Normandy. Of his cousin whose body was never recovered in the demilitarized zone of Korea. And finally, of his bunkmate, whom I had only known as the homeless man who talked to himself under the expressway.

“There are some stories that are never told, my boy …” Stories of despair, of horror, of death. Of a quick glance at a picture of a high school sweetheart before charging onto a beach where so many had already died. Of a soldier’s last request, to tell his mother he loved her. Of post-traumatic stress disorder. Of a pain-numbing descent into drugs, alcohol, and mental instability. These are the stories that go untold, not only because they are hard to talk about, but because many of those who could tell them are no longer here. Their stories are gone.

The spirit of America is like an unwritten language: It passes from generation to generation, not through formal lessons, but through stories. With their collective experiences and stories, veterans instill in us a love of country, a sense of courage and sacrifice, and a desire to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. In our shared American heritage, our veterans are our teachers, and we must ensure that their stories are preserved for future generations.

As I rise from placing a flower by my grandfather’s grave, the clouds begin to part and rays of celestial light fall on the American Flag. I look around and see the crowd of mourners weeping, and in that moment I have a revelation. I see past the tears, and detect a communal sense of reverence at the life and sacrifice of my grandfather. At the stories, the experiences, the lessons that he shared with us. In this moment, I realize that I am blessed to have been witness to the life of this warrior, this veteran, my grandfather. It is our duty as citizens to share these stories so my grandfather and all other veterans live on in our collective American conscience forever.