2025/Connor-

My name is Tucker, and I am sixteen years old. My life has always been in motion, packing up and leaving behind homes, friends, and memories as my family moves from one place to another. That’s just the reality of being a military child. I’ve learned to accept change, to expect goodbyes, and to keep moving forward. But nothing could have prepared me for the moment I had to say goodbye to my brother, Josh. Unlike the other goodbyes in my life, this one was permanent.

Josh was fifteen when he passed away. He had been battling severe illnesses for as long as I could remember, but I never let myself believe he wouldn’t make it. He was my younger brother, only by a year. He was the strongest person I knew, not just because of how he fought through his sickness, but because he never let it define him. Even on his worst days, when the pain was unbearable and his body betrayed him, he would still find a way to crack a joke or tease me about something stupid. He was my best friend.

We were stationed overseas when it happened. I don’t remember much about that day, just the feeling of my chest caving in when my parents told me. It didn’t seem real. It still doesn’t. The hardest part wasn’t just losing Josh, but knowing we couldn’t bring him home. Our family had always planned for him to be buried back in the States, where the rest of our relatives were, where he belonged. But being stationed so far away, we didn’t have that option. Instead, we had to cremate him.

That decision shattered me. I wanted so badly to give him a place to rest, a spot where we could visit him, where he could be surrounded by family, not trapped in an urn on a shelf in a house that wasn’t even permanent. Every time we moved, we had to take him with us, packing him up like another piece of luggage. It didn’t feel right. He deserved more.

Josh isn’t just ashes in a container; he’s a person, my brother. And yet, he has to wait, just like I do, to go back home. Every time I look at that urn, I feel like I’ve failed him. I know it wasn’t my choice, I know there was nothing I could have done, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Losing Josh changed everything for me. Moving around was already hard, but now every new house feels emptier, every new place more unfamiliar. There’s no escaping the grief, no way to leave it behind like an old address. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve had to say goodbye in my life, but this one; the one that mattered most; I never got to say it the way I wanted.

People don’t talk enough about how hard it is to be a military kid. Sure, we get to see different parts of the world, experience new cultures, and meet new people. But no one talks about what happens when we lose someone. No one tells you how hard it is to grieve when you’re constantly moving and when you can’t go back to the places that held your memories. Josh’s whole life existed in different homes, different schools, different hospitals. And now, even in death, he has no real place to rest.

I tell myself that one day, we’ll finally go back. One day, Josh will be with the rest of our family, and I will too. Until then, I carry him with me; not just in the urn that sits in our house, but in every memory, every joke he ever told, every part of me that still feels his presence.

That’s why it’s tough being a military child. It’s not just about leaving places behind; it’s about leaving people behind too. And sometimes, like with Josh, you never get to bring them home the way they deserve.