My brother-in-law, a marine, was working a flight from Stewart Air Force Base, New York, to Cherry Point, North Carolina, then to California, and finally to Yuma... His friend and co worker had been trying to get a spot on that plane... At first there wasn't an opening... Then a seat opened up, but his wife had to go out of town and he couldn't get baby sitting. Finally, at the last minute, it was looking like he could make it. But then they had to make room for more cargo... So he could not make the flight.

That was Monday morning, 10 July, 2017. At five in the afternoon, that KC-130 blew apart over Mississippi and all sixteen men, 15 Marines and one Navy (including my brother-in-law) were lost to history.

I tell that story often, because it intrigues me. I remember him standing in my sister's kitchen talking shortly after the accident saying, "It should have been me..." But my only response was, "No it shouldn't have. You tried... something kept you off that plane." I don't call it god, I don't call it providence... I don't even call it coincidence... I don't know what it was, but he's still among us... and I'm grateful. I miss the hell out of Brendan, but when I see him I'm grateful for his family that he's still with them. And I give thanks... to what I do not know. I just generically call it the "universe." Even while I'd like to kick the Universe's ass for what it did to Brendan.