I wrote this in the early part of summer 2014 while living in Boston, MA. I thought I'd pull it out, polish it up a bit and share it in honor of today.

It is not complete, in my view, but it serves as a framework for ideas that seem to grow and mature with time. I know this piece and it's ideas will be something I work on for the rest of my life.

Boston Common. Memorial Day, 26 May 2014. © Conor Davern

Only recently, in comparison to my life as a whole, have I realized my capacity to be moved. It really only struck me this year, like some aspect of a larger shift, seemingly an independent issue when first uncovered, that days like these are integral moments of what will amount to a broader representation of who I have become.

I am better equipped, readily willing, to openly express the feelings that have grown in me over the past few months. I would have, even a year or so before, denied or made passing jokes about admitting this to almost anyone because it felt silly, soft, undeveloped or even 'too human.' But I have given it enough time, so I may articulate what I mean when I say 'moved.' What I am describing is a very specific feeling that I feel is rooted in many distant ideas and experiences that are connected only by my interpretation and understanding of them; they coalesce in a way I did not expect, a powerful wash of emotions breaking below my feet, cresting over the the thoughts in my head, at a time of my life where I was willing to take on a new experience, to realize something about myself.

Memorial Day never really held any personal meaning. I knew it meant a great deal to a great many people, I just didn't (let myself) understand why. Looking at it now, trying not to fall victim to over-emphasized convictions that can overtake someone in the ascension to a new cause, it is more personal than I thought it could ever have been. I want to say, 'I get it now,' just to be succinct, and hope you know what I mean. I see Memorial Day sales, the celebration of summer arriving, backyard grilling with too much beer--a complete misunderstanding, and worse, a misinterpretation of what this day was set aside to reflect upon. I started to see how this day was turned around, like a cornerstone in the year's calendar, to be part of America's grand lexicon of 'looking the other way.'

It is not an easy day to focus on, especially if you try to. When you begin to focus on what the day is there for and how the day is ultimately used--the slightest analysis of these hypocrisies can start a collapse of the heart I began to feel this year. I was moved by things I didn't know moved me; reminded of people I didn't know I cared about, caring for people I didn't know, the decisions they had made, the ones they didn't and the consequences of their serendipitous luck. The good, the bad and the ugly of who these people truly were no longer seemed to carry the weight of existence--they were ethereal now, not as any form of justification, but in remembrance. I no longer needed to look past all the things I disagreed with, the political and moral differences we very clearly would have had, to begin to understand how I felt about who they were as a lifetime, not simply a person. I began to think of these people, those especially who died while in service of the military, as the sum of a lifetime of experiences; these dead men and women are now an unchanging bedrock to work towards or away from, to aspire to or learn from. These people became harder to know as their memories petrified with time, but became easier to acknowledge, to pay respect to, as they now remained who they will always be in our minds. As I thought my way through this, putting my own personal arguments aside to try and comprehend the totality of these people's lives, I realized what I believe this day is meant for; we must not simply remember these people and who they were to us, but to realize why they are no longer here, how they can no longer affect our lives, and acknowledge the reflections of their lessons in who we have become.

This year, I decided to go to Boston Common for Memorial Day. Being the first time I made any special arrangements for this day, I can't say if it was the first time the city put up such a display, but I'd surely doubt it was. The hills that begin to roll upwards, stretching east towards downtown Boston meet amidst the criss-cross of many walking paths and a small but beautiful open stretch of grass. Its a perfect place for sunbathers, games of frisbee, little league games and playing the catch with the dog; normally not the site of a memory, of what has been done, what has been given up, so we may enjoy this place so carefree. Right in this spot, there staked in the ground, were 37,000 small American flags. Placed by the Massachusetts Veteran's Affairs Group, each was to represent a man or woman who had died in the service of their country, dating back to the American Revolutionary War that spurred their country. I now freely admit to feeling some sense of pride, its source still a bit of a mystery, for the place I live. I say their country because I feel conflicted about saying my country. There is a respect I place in giving ownership of this country to these men and women, a reverence in the difference of what they have given to this place and what I have taken from it. I freely enjoy this corner of the world so because of what they have done to make it this way, letting it be theirs until I feel I have contributed in my own way, honored enough to join in their company.

My grandfather died on Wednesday, 9 November 2011. It's strange to see the date written.

Robert James Davern did not die in combat. He was stationed in Tokyo during the Korean War, met and married a young Japanese woman, Sadeko Tanaka, had his first of three sons, hopped a ship across the Pacific, made it back to New York and started what was a successful, if not a periodically tumultuous, life on Long Island. He was a veteran, proud and lucky that his time in the service steered him away from a lifetime of recidivism, clearly to be honored on Veteran's Day among every other day we choose to say thanks each year. I'm almost certain he never saw combat, but then again, there are Grand Canyons full of intimacies I still don't know about my family. He did not die in combat, he did not die while serving, but for the first time this year, with a resolution I could not dampen, I could not make the distinction between a day in November and one in May. His memory and the man he was came back as a wrecking ball, knocking out my mind's legs, leaving me emotionally quivering as I stood there thinking about how I would admit I felt.

I started through the Earth, in another state all together. My mind drifted around admiration and honor, finding seemingly disparate events that began to show a continuity. Unrelated to one another, I began to swell with the understanding that it was me--I was the connection. My affections were what drew these many thoughts together with a common thread that I was just discovering, admitting. As I veered through my life up to that point, needle in hand, I came across something still very fresh; my focus came back to the field in front of me and the flags in my view shifted from representations of each person to the symbol that identifies a group of men universally admired.

It was only a few weeks earlier, the last in the month of March, that Firefighter Michael Kennedy and Lt. Edward Walsh were killed in a nasty fire that went out of control in the Back Bay neighborhood of Boston. I would have felt the average sympathies, like anyone, if not for a very meaningful year I spent with the good men in the North End company Ladder 8, Engine 1 while in photography school. I walked in, unannounced, to satisfy another assignment I was working on, only to catch a lucky break and make ins with these good hearted, tough skinned but kind men who let 'just some kid' spend the better part of a year getting in their way. I have never look back on this with anything but absolute wonder and fondness, the specifics of my time there beginning to fade after so many years, while the greater sense of who these men were hardens with time's resolve. I believe I could, and would be lucky to, encounter any of these men again, shake their hand and not only reminisce about the 'long-haired fella' who was there eight years ago but also follow through with all the favors they graciously extended my way as what I now believe was more than just a professional courtesy.

Only a few hours after the fire had finally been wrangled, I sat down on the couch as I fumbled with the overly complicated remote control, knowing I was dazed from hearing the news earlier. The television came on, I started flipping through the channels to find the story. Television doesn't have the all encompassing grasp it once did, not having cable or even a TV for years now, but the stark, vivid images I tuned in to were captivating. The images filled the screen, getting brighter each second the TV warmed up, with pulsing blue and white lights. There was a procession of men, lined and standing at attention in full regalia, as an official looking black, tinted SUV drove slowly from the driveway of the hospital to the street. The SUV drove between the men standing, each raising, then lowering a salute as the make-shift hearse carried the body of one of these men to the coroner's office. I lost my breath for a minute, not because the drinks made it easier to, but because I was experiencing this moment, influenced and informed by the collective events that have come to make up my identity, understanding there was a gravity to the death of these men to which I felt a part of. Like the one that keeps my feet on this Earth, it is a mutual force--shared equally in its effect, regardless of the division of input.

I went to the Common twice, alone the first time. I wanted some time alone in the presence of these memories, though I didn't know these are the ones I would land on. I've been called dramatic, accused of feeling a forced melancholy, when it comes to my decisions in a time and place such as this; it certainly wasn't so here, in this moment. I didn't need to try and be anything. I didn't know exactly what I would feel or do, but I was prepared for something I didn't completely expect or understand to come out.

The flags moved in a smooth wave, rippling together as the wind passed over them. They seemed motionless despite their beautiful movement. It's difficult to recall something like that with absolute integrity. I don't feel I was strictly seeing this; even standing there it was like recalling a distant memory, removed from the direct experience of being there, replaced by a swollen and rounded feeling. I stood there, as motionless as the flags appeared to be, feeling like I was swaying in the wind. I had let go a great deal, letting what I felt take over, giving control to how I actually felt, not how I thought or wanted to feel.

I believe there is an all too frequent tendency to bend away from who we truly are--whether it be by choice or on accident, out of stoicism or political savvy, an unwillingness to confront part of yourself you don't understand or a willing determination to avoid a part you don't like--I've done it for nearly every reason. We deny our strongest desires and convictions to ourselves and the outside world, because it makes us feel weak or scared of how the world will react. It feels too difficult and ugly to wrangle these outlying emotions, sequestered in an emotional prison we have the keys to but don't dare to use. Our minds outpace our hearts, thinking we can or have grown up much faster than is true, skipping over the elemental lessons that allow us to be enriched and better understand this world and how we fit within it. We look to take on more before we can carry it, and eventually our hearts can't keep up; the space between our minds and hearts, where we feel, must eventually be bridged.

We can, in spite of our greater tendencies, craft ourselves through these moments. There is a value in struggle, in confusion, in pain and anger, in conflict and in sorrow. That free fall, that motionless swaying, is the time to find out what you believe, to see who you are to yourself. I didn't know what I would find, nor did I want to expect something, rather discover a part of myself unobstructed by any prediction. That free fall, that motionless swaying, came on violently as I stood alone in the Common, transfixed by the ocean of flags, alone except for the memories of men and women I've never known. I stood there for a long time. For those moments, I stood beside myself, feeling as though I was watching someone else change and develop. I can look at it now, with a clarity that comes with time, and realize that in that moment how I could be moved.

The second time I went to the Common was with Katie. Although we left work together, we were coming from very different places to see the memorial. We didn't speak much about going to see it or what it meant to us individually, other than to say that I may be a little somber. I don't think Katie expected any more or less; she teases me for acting harder when I'm soft. As we walked across the field the motionless swaying crept up, stronger as we got closer. I started to drift into reverence, twinged with a misplaced sense of atonement. There were a few minutes of silence, Katie holding my hand, her chest pressed against my back. I could tell she felt the change in me. I could feel her there with me, but giving my mind the room to pace around in circles.

When she finally asked me what I was thinking, I got out a short wavered, "Um," and then just tried to breath. I could only look through the world in front of me, slightly above the horizon; like a liar who tells by scratching their neck, a man who is about to reveal part of himself will get lost in the distance at an angle that conveys his truer feelings. A quiver grabbed a hold of my words as I tried to control what came out to explain with any clarity what I felt. I was translating the vague and boundless glyph that represented the entirety of my thoughts for Katie. I don't think she knew--in that moment I had just deciphered myself.

I explained to her that I have always felt a strong bond with the greater human experience, it feeling more like an instinct to know someone's mind even when I don't. I did not have the pride, camaraderie and patriotism that are the channels to guide that instinct until the last year or so. I have felt the tremendous biological shift in my thoughts, overhauling my way of thinking, allowing for such a nuanced perspective. I can place my whole existence into someone's radically different experience and feel a wave of insight into what it may be like. I can acknowledge that I don't understand every aspect of it, but with a glimmer I can experience it from their time and place, I can withdraw back to my own vision feeling enlightened with a new view of the world; to feel like I have discovered another aspect of what it is that makes us who we are. To return wholeheartedly to the moment when I stood in front of my grandfather, sick and knowingly near his death, showing me his extraordinary fear through only his look. The fresh memory of the firefighters, having placed myself in the company of men like them before, having seen their bond, still raw and evocative in its own thought. Seeing thousands of waving tokens, each a stand in for people I never met, but felt I knew and wished to revere, becoming overwhelmed by their vast expanse. I had been shown, as much as I allowed myself to be, that I could be so moved.

Katie asked me if I would stand for a picture, flags in the background. That it would be nice for my father to see me in the city he called home, carrying on his own pride and patriotism. I refused, as politely as possible, despite her several attempts. Her face, understanding there was something substantial within that denial, was inquisitive. This wasn't a souvenir, a destination to document for a photo album; it deserves a profound respect, to be treated differently, observed and honored, hallowed. My explanation had come from within, without any thought, like a conviction I didn't know I so firmly believed. There is always a moment we give credit to when we pivot in our identity. While we may remember them accidentally, recounting other stories and tales, there are those that need no reference. I won't be something I can forget; as Katie asked and I protested, I was stepping back within myself, further with each request, to find the point where I could begin to explain why. She had no idea. She couldn't have. She didn't know what Memorial Day had kept locked away in me, because until then, neither did I.

For more information on Firefighter Kennedy, Lieutenant Walsh and the Beacon Street Fire, click here for the Boston Globe article.

I don't think I've ever had friends, the way most people think of the word, just brothers. Just a few; chosen by the accidents of my non-intentions and solidified over time through what some would call, well, luck. Fewer than what you could count on your hands, they have become so important in as many years as those hands could count. They have each earned their own chapters in the story of my life, bleeding into one another's as we grew together, as I have earned the right to call them brothers. They are the foundation and shoring up I have come to rely upon, much as I hope I have become for them.

Colin Gee, Arnold Arboretum, Boston, circa 2009. Courtesy of Will Faraci.

Colin and I met, like almost all the boys, under benign but auspicious circumstances. Transplants, in a new city on short notice, venturing into a new part of life we didn't know we didn't quite understand just yet. Smoking cigarettes outside of The New England School of Photography only a few weeks into the program, one of us piped up. The silence that exists between young men who don't yet know each other, shuffling around in their own awkwardness finding the confidence to meet new people for the first time since childhood, had been broken, and our friendship started. The conversation revealed we had the same birthday--down to the year--and discovered, very quickly, we were very much the same troublemakers. Older brothers, the sons of doctors, night owls and late sleepers; we quickly settled into our friendship.

Friendship grows into brotherhood incrementally through the monotony of a common interest, time shared chipping away at the tasks at hand and the procrastination of completing them, together. The surface of our differences eroded were with each day spent together until the depths of our similarities were raw and revealed to be the foundation our brotherhood is built upon. Our time at NESOP, the nights sharing cheap beer endlessly watching new era cartoons, hours skateboarding instead of doing schoolwork, dropping everything to get each other to or from the hospital far too many times, planning and cooking joint birthday whole pig roasts, standing together in the sideways rain of a cold Wyoming night that deserves (and will get) it's own story--that, is how we became brothers.

In the summer of 2011, I left Boston, MA early in the morning under circumstances that have been lost to time. I was headed out West. West of the Mississippi, with a stay in Nebraska and a turn in Wyoming. I can remember ripping through western Pennsylvania, flying over the soaring mountains of the Alleghenies, topping out at the red end of both the tachometer and speedometer. Stupid, in hindsight, but I was excited as all Hell. A night in Ohio, then Iowa, and a short ride until I was as at a gas station outside Lincoln, NE. Colin met me in his beloved Land Cruiser, beat up and befitting him if you know him as I do. Lead through the suburbs of Lincoln, I followed his tan junk heap to 8043 N. Shore Drive. Four more days in Lincoln and I counted myself a lucky man.

Jo, Terry and Connor (Colin's younger brother) were there to meet Colin's odd friend who traveled 1600 miles with open doors and a hospitality you can only, and rightfully, describe as MidWestern. I was beat and they were wonderful. I had my own bed, bathroom and all the food they could offer. Colin and I were in the same place again, months after he went home to be with his ailing Father, ready to have the same old fun in a new way, in a new place. I met all the faces that were just names for years, people that were once only stories materialized, and we trampled all over Lincoln making stories of our own. I remember floating through it all, free and untied from the regularities I left in Boston. There was a pause in time, an ethereal excitement that transformed only a few days into what felt like a few weeks, and I can remember reveling in the oppressive heat of our elongated nights, Colin and I rousing about, his old friends and my new ones in tow. The rolls of film I shot throughout this trip, spending years undeveloped and moved from one apartment to the next, to this day remain largely undiscovered in negative storage boxes; they are still waiting to be reconstituted, one of the few things from this trip that isn't just a memory. They will be a complement to bolster the movies in my mind that have slowed into snapshots, the finer details of having been there concentrated into single images that take me right back. That is, for sure, something to come back to another day.

It makes me wish I had a standalone memory, one that was concrete and certain, chronological, so far as memory can be. I don't, though. I think referentially, laterally and rely on the context of my free floating thoughts and those of my brothers when we are together. I often feel like I've lost so many of these memories, with a twinge of heartbreak, because I can't recite them encyclopedically. It's a bit scary, making me question my faculties: had I not been there, wishing I was somewhere else? Did I blur the recording, or maybe mistreat the archives, with what I've done to myself? Or is this just what happens; you don't forget, you begin not to remember. But then I drift, or talk, and it begins to crop up. Like summarizing your childhood or a decade of your life, the beacons are distant, dim. The important things start to appear and they shine brighter the longer I spend with them, their light illuminates the space, the story, around them, the details and nuances becoming clearer. Eventually, navigating becomes fluid and I can begin to see how it's all related, distant but connected. I keep drifting, my concerns subdued for now. And then there comes a moment, not all that often, when my focus turns away from trying to remember and finds it's way to discovering these memories and I try to be grateful. Were I able to recall every moment--every bar, the drive out of Lincoln to the shooting range, drunken burritos in children's playgrounds, grilling in the heat for dinner with the neighbors, fishing, well, with a remarkable lack of skill, the strange circumstances that brought me to tramp around the campground on the outskirts of town in only my briefs and go swimming in the darkness--I guess I would miss the excitement in reliving, rediscovering each story, every time I get to tell it.

There are, of course, certain experiences that live outside of a cartographic memory. They seem to stand alone and, because of their importance, reverent. The platitudes that so often describe these encounters and the people within them can be fitting, but belie the sincerity intertwined. I try not to fall into 'speechwriting' about things I hold in this esteem, as much to challenge myself to find the words as to pay the deserved respect. The moment that stands apart from the rest of this expedition is better described as a rolling collection of comments and conversations with Colin's Dad, Terry.

We sat, for most of the time, in silence. I have been there many times before, waiting quietly for a man from a generation (or two) before me to say something I could catch and throw back. I know now, not only with Terry, that I waited because I wanted to sound pensive and particular, choosing my words carefully so that I would be seen wise for my age or insightful for my lack thereof; I'm sure I sounded exactly like I was trying for that effect. Despite my greatest efforts to be abnormal, Terry was remarkably normal. He found small things to chat about, the television series he and Jo were watching, while she and Connor were arguing upstairs, interrupting himself to roll his eyes like this was the moment he would need to intervene. He was like any father of boys in that sense. Normal, in every way except for his pauses, when he seemed to be searching for the ability to say the words or sometimes, when he was searching for the thought that wasn't there anymore; my silence here was patient and genuine. We found our way into this rhythm and it swung between idle and idol conversation, from television to the honest feeling that follows an eye rolling. This was the definition of our relationship, spanning the mornings and afternoons between consoling a hangover and searching for another one, and I don't hesitate to say we both knew, this is the entirety of what it would be.

The conversations Terry and I had are dear. I may not remember every word, but I also don't necessarily want to give away the ones I do; they are moments we shared and it feels right to keep them that way. We spent much of our time together at breakfast--before Colin was awake, Jo and Connor hashing it out in another room the way Moms and teenagers do--finding the balance between small talk and breeching the chasm that exists between your son's brother and your brother's sick father. I learned a tremendous amount from the mornings around the kitchen table with a man facing his own end, a father saying goodbye to his young sons and a husband whose wife would soon lose him; I heard stories of his life, saw the expressions of a frustrated man, watched him laugh and make his family laugh, and came to understand Colin that much more. I am certainly on the peripheral of people affected by Terry, and I very much was, and I wouldn't miss an opportunity to elaborate--everything I saw in that household during that summer proved Terry was an exponentially larger and more loved figure in the lives of his sons and his wife than someone lucky to have known him for no more than four days could express.

I had traveled a long way to meet my brother's father, to meet the man for myself and to do so knowing I would probably never see him again. In some respect, I would like to think he had a small sense of each reason I was there. I tell myself he did and occasionally it will surface in rambling discussions with Colin; in so many words, carried by his tone or mood, I will be consoled on that though, strange as it is to be consoled by a son who's father is dead. I'll be reminded that it's not just about the thoughts of the dead, or my own, but what those thoughts mean to his family left behind. If I can tell myself anything, I can say that Colin knew why I was there.

Four days is not enough time to get to know a man, but it is long enough to get to know what that man means to his family. It didn't take long to see his affect, how his sons looked just like him, the ways in which he was their father and husband. That much was clear. The tumor in his brain was sporadically taking away his ability to deliver one liners in time, but gave each sentence a poignance we hung on, that I hung on to, with the respect and anticipation his present and former self surely deserved. I don't know, I am still at a bit of a loss even years later, how to describe the fortune I was given, having known Terry Gee in the small way I did.

I left Lincoln after only a few days. Tired and antsy to continue out West, I still wished I was there for another day. This trip had been driven by a particularly intangible search, one I still can't describe well and have attempted again since. I went out to discover something deeper, to just get it, like the road and the time hovering above it would just present it to me. Wishing for another day only continued that search; I remember thinking that if I spent that day more focused on Colin and Terry with each other and the rest of the family, I would uncover something more profound. But I didn't get that extra day, and even if I did I don't think it would have given me anything more than the four days previous. I would have spent the time looking for something that I couldn't articulate, waiting for it to come out and strike me, instead of being present and enjoying the moment. I would have been disappointed during and after the fact, having not made that great discovery, leaving Lincoln with a melancholy that would have tainted the extraordinary time I did have. Instead, I packed up my gear and readied the bike. I started to get excited about Wyoming, how far away it was and how equally unknown. Colin would leave after me, driving with friends, and get there before me to set up camp. With little fanfare but a tremendous gratitude, I gave my thanks, hugs and handshakes and said farewell to Connor, Jo and Terry.

I realize in hindsight, I should have modeled my approach for the rest of the trip after those four days in Lincoln. Enjoying what you are doing, at that time and in that place, is the way to discover something deeper, to just get it. But you don't discover it then. You don't discover it the day after or even when you get back home. You begin to discover things about it as you sit with it, as the clarity of all the details begin to tarnish and the enormity of it becomes manageable. I was looking for an answer while on the road, disappointed that it wasn't presented to me, that I didn't find it. To be sure, I look back on this road trip with a grand fondness, but it will always carry a vascular nonfulfillment. The reprieve in Lincoln does not have any of this conflict in memory. My understanding of what it meant, of lessons learned and the value of that time, has come with a long term processing; only after creating these memories, only in the years afterwards--the remembering, the retelling, the reliving of these few days--have I been able to reflect so well on having been there and know what it all meant.

Colin has been a brother for years now; I can say without hesitation, 'so have I.' We were lucky to have met, to be sure, but stubborn, determined, to be there in all the ways possible that have allowed us to grow into brotherhood. I speak of my friends, my brothers, with such lofty descriptions because even after years of berating, mocking and joyous torture, we know what underlies these innocuous spats. We are there for one another in all the ways we recognize as much as the ones we don't. We understand it and each other in a way maybe only brothers can.

Terry died in November of 2011, only a few months after I met the man. Colin was there with his family and though I wish I could have been there for him, I'm glad he was there for his family.

Colin and I will bike the Metric Century Ride for the Brain Tumor Society, in honor of Terry, for the second time on Sunday, 17 May. If you would like to help support, please donate here.