Every Memorial Day, we pause to remember those who gave everything in service to this country. For me, that remembrance has always been personal. Years ago, I wrote a tribute to Oscar Aguilar—a young man who was not just a family friend, but someone who felt like a brother during a formative time in my life.
We lived together in India when I was young. Our families were close, bound by shared experiences, laughter, and the kind of connection that only comes when people are far from home yet build something meaningful together. Oscar and his brother Hector were part of that world. We had gatherings, parties, and the kind of carefree moments that, at the time, seemed ordinary—but in hindsight, were anything but.
My dad and Oscar’s father shared a bond that went far beyond simple friendship—they were connected by service, sacrifice, and the experience of raising their families side by side while living abroad. In a foreign country, they leaned on each other, creating a sense of home through trust, laughter, and shared responsibility. That friendship became the foundation for our families’ closeness, shaping memories for a lifetime
Life moved on, as it does. Our families eventually lost touch sometime in the early 1970s. Years turned into decades—30, then 40, then over 50 years without contact. During that time, Oscar’s fate had already been sealed in history. He was killed in the Vietnam War, one of so many young men whose lives were cut short in service to their country. His loss was deeply felt—not just by the Aguilar family, but by ours as well.
Still, memory has a way of holding on, even when people drift apart.
A couple years ago, I wrote a Memorial Day article honoring Oscar. It was my way of remembering him—not just as a soldier, but as the person I knew: a presence from childhood, someone woven into the fabric of our lives.
Then something remarkable happened.
Just weeks ago, Hector—Oscar’s brother—tracked down my sister and reached out. After more than half a century, they reconnected. He shared stories of what had happened over the years, spoke about Oscar, his family and reflected on their lives after we had all gone our separate ways. During that conversation, my sister mentioned the tribute I had written.
Soon after, Hector called me.
What followed was one of those rare conversations that feels like no time has passed at all. We spoke not just about the past, but about our shared paths through military service. Hector had spent many years in the Army and then served a lifetime in the Air Force reserves, while I served six years in the air Force reserves supporting McChord Air Force Base in the late 1970s and early 1980s. He served in the military all his life. Different journeys, but shaped by the same sense of duty.
We talked about family, about life, about the years in between. But what stood out most was what Hector shared about the tribute. My sister sent him the link to the article . He told me how much it meant to him and his family—that someone had remembered Oscar in that way, after all those years. He had even shared the article with his son. They were deeply touched that Oscar’s life—and sacrifice—had not been forgotten.
And truthfully, so was I.
There is something profound about memory being returned to the people it was meant for. What began as a personal act of remembrance came full circle, finding its way back to Oscar’s own family decades later. It felt less like coincidence and more like something guided—like fate reuniting a bond that had never fully broken.
This phone call also served as a reminder of something deeper: the enduring bond formed through military service. My father, Oscar, Hector—they all served. In different roles, in different times, but connected by a shared understanding of sacrifice, duty, and the realities of the loss of loved ones in war. The memory of Oscar endures, no matter how much time passes or how far apart life takes you.
Now, after more than 50 years, there is hope that we will meet again in person. Hector is planning a trip to the Northwest, and with it comes the possibility of a reunion that once seemed impossible.
Memorial Day is about honoring those we’ve lost. But sometimes, it also becomes about rediscovery—of people, of memories, and of connections that time could not erase.
Oscar’s story didn’t end in Vietnam. It lives on in the people who remember him, in the people he touched, and in moments like this—when a tribute written years ago finds its way home. We look forward to seeing Hector and reminiscing about the magical time our families spent living in India.
Surfside Washington News 