I write most of my blogs in my head while running.  I need to focus off of the screaming lungs and the aching calves.  So I write in my head. Usually, what I write is never published. A lot of the time, I just disappear into old memories or stories that never come out. This week, it seemed to be the same memory, over and over. It was of a funeral.  One I was attending, not really knowing if I should, for a 25 year old soldier who had been serving with Dh.  He had been my husband’s comrade, killed by an IED days before they were all coming home.  I felt like I had no business being at that funeral, like I was intruding on their pain, but there I was with 2 other military wives, sitting in the back. And soldiers brought in the casket, draped in the flag.  And I had it all together.  Even through the bagpipes, the casket, the ceremony. I may have mentioned I am not a crier?  I am not.  And I wasn’t.  Until I saw him. Every soldier who is killed overseas has an escort home.  A comrade who will travel with him and stay with his fallen friend until he is buried. Everyone else taking part in the funeral is wearing their best.  Shined, polished, looking strong and formal to lay one of their own to rest.  From the pallbearers to the guests, every military member is in full dress uniform. Except for the escort.  He’s exhausted, you can tell just by looking at him.  His face is pale and his eyes are red.  His last few days have been made up of sitting next to grieving family, helping with funeral arrangements and making sure…