Earlier this summer, my dad asked me to come downstairs to show me something. My dad and I had been getting close this past year, and this night he wanted to share a special memory with me. From the depths of the storage room, my father pulled out this 6-inch photo album. It was from his time serving in the Marines in Somalia. This early 1990s government attempt to restore peace to a war-torn country was one of the biggest regrets of our military.

My father was young at the time and didn’t know this; all he knew was that he went through hell and back at the age of only 20 years old. He and his friends made the most of their time there. He showed me all his friends, his crazy experiences, his miserable ironic poses in photos. He laughed and cried, remembered every single one of his buddies’ names, and where they are now. It was like he was telling an old friend a story rather than his daughter. He wasn’t my father for a minute, rather a man that was sharing a hidden part of his past with another human. This is one of my most cherished memories with him, and I ask him still to show me the album again and again to see a dark part of his soul ignite with a bright flame.