What Memory Looks Like After Service

McMurdo Station, Antarctica. U.S. Navy, VXE-6 Antarctic Pararescue Team, ‘74-’77.

From there we operated across the Ice with ski-equipped LC-130 Hercules aircraft and UH-1N twin-jet engine helicopters.

Antarctica is a vast remoteness. There is nothing there to rely on except the person standing next to you. Especially on the pararescue team.

You don’t spend much time “capturing” anything while you’re doing the work. You plan. You train. You execute. You log what needs to be logged and move on.

So what survives from those years is thin. Jump log. A few photos. Certificates. Service medals. Most of what mattered never made it onto paper.

Years later, I stood at the DC Vietnam Veterans Memorial and watched the people at the wall.

A hand flat against the black granite. A pencil rubbing - carefully taken. A photograph held up beside a name.

And quiet tears.

Memorials matter. They are sacred ground. But they can only hold what can be etched.

They don’t talk back. They don’t answer questions. They don’t carry voice.

And voice is where human truth lives.

Service is full of things that never show up on your DD-214.

The humor under pressure. The lessons learned the hard way. The people who shaped you. The small decisions that changed everything.

Those are the first things to fade, even in the people who lived them.

That’s the bridge to Reflekta.

Not as a replacement for memorials, but as a way to keep a veteran’s voice present—while they are still here to speak it, and still in charge of what gets shared.

Giving voice to a Reflektion—whether of yourself, or of someone you’ve lost—means preserving more than a name or a moment. It means capturing a recognizable image and likeness that can engage in spontaneous, dynamic conversation. Not a script. Not a plaque. A living exchange.

Legacy is not just a wall. It’s a voice.

And voices were never meant to be silent.