WASHINGTON, D.C. — When I served in Afghanistan, the daytime skies were usually clear and blue. We sometimes had a respite from the scorching heat when puffy clouds lent some cover from the sun’s direct rays. But for our families back home, the clouds that hung over them much of the time were metaphorical and dark. For them, every call from an unknown number or unexpected knock on the door reignited their constant worry.

Every year on Memorial Day, I think of the Marines I’ve known whose families answered the knock on their door that brought the worst news imaginable: David Raymond Baker, of Painesville, Ohio; Bill Cahir, a former Pennsylvania congressional candidate who once worked as a reporter for the Express-Times in Easton, Pa.; Richard Gannon, of Escondido, California; Donald J. Hogan, of San Clemente, California, recipient of the Navy Cross, the nation’s second-highest award for valor: Kenneth E. Hunt, of Tucson, Arizona; Ray Mendoza, a wrestling standout at Ohio State University; Justin J. Swanson, of Anaheim, California, and the thousands of others killed in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world during the long war.

I think of their loved ones’ dread as they watched two service members in dress uniforms approach their door and ask: “Are you . . . ?”

I think of the journey home of these fallen warriors. Packed in ice in an airtight aluminum casket covered by an American flag, then marched up the back ramp of a military cargo plane. Comrades stood at attention and rendered a final salute. On arrival at a U.S. air base, the awaiting family had some moments alone with their loved one before the journey to a final resting place began.

For some, that place is a small plot in their hometown or one of our national cemeteries. The most famous is Arlington, near our nation’s capital. From a distance, the headstones there all look the same. Their symmetry seems at first to confer anonymity on the souls of those who rest beneath them. Walking in their midst, however, their individuality emerges. The inscriptions are uncomplicated: name; a military operation; an award; often a symbol of religious affiliation; dates of birth and death.

Making the calculations these pairs of dates encourage, their ages strike fiercely home. Just short of 21 — not yet old enough to buy a beer, but able to wield a weapon of war on behalf of his country. Forty — awaiting the birth of twins due soon after returning from deployment. Thirty-two — a newly promoted major ten years into a planned life of service in uniform. Twenty-two — nearing the end of an enlistment, a college acceptance letter in hand. It’s the age at which they will be forever remembered, their forever age.

At the burial ceremony, the family awaits a horse-drawn caisson transporting the coffin to the gravesite. Once it arrives, pallbearers stepping to the quiet cadence of a non-commissioned officer (NCO) move the casket to a platform where it will sit during the ceremony. Prayers and speeches are recited, and a seven-member team raise their rifles and fire into the air three times, the sudden crack of rounds jolting the senses of the mourners.

“Taps” plays while the flag that was draped over the casket is folded and handed to an officer or senior NCO, who presents it to a spouse, a parent, or a child, kneels, and says, “On behalf of the president of the United States, the commandant of the Marine Corps, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

Local papers may run a story about the hometown hero, but usually little attention is paid to a life cut short in service to our country, and the loss is drowned out among news of celebrity gossip, political shenanigans, or other minutiae that consume our lives. The families of those killed in action are soon left to face their grief as well as they can, often alone.

For them, the final ceremonies honoring their loved ones are a stark reminder that one of the constant realities of war throughout history is that bad things will happen to good people. This Memorial Day, take a moment to reflect on its meaning, and the families of those who know its significance too well.

Gus Biggio is a native of Northeast Ohio and Marine veteran. This essay is adapted from parts of his book, “The Wolves of Helmand.”

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