All I really want to do is remember.

I don't want to analyze. I don't want to blame. I don't want to justify. I don't want to diminish. I don't want to inflate.

I just want to remember.

I want to remember Jeffrey Miller, shot and killed by the Ohio National Guard, and lying face-down on the pavement. I want to remember Mary Ann Vecchio and her iconic anguish that over the years has come to represent much about my generation.

I want to remember the feeling that in 1969 the Vietnam War was winding down—finally, and with great sacrifice—and I especially want to remember the feeling that overwhelmed a generation like a slow-moving thunderstorm when Nixon announced the bombing of Cambodia, an escalation of killing, a ramping up of terror.

I want to remember Bobby Gaddy, my high-school friend who grew up to be a toy-maker, who told me on the evening of May 4, 1970 that four students had been shot and killed in Ohio.

I want to remember "Ohio," by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. I want to listen to that song at least once a year.

I want to listen and remember.

I want to remember my friends who went to Vietnam and returned, and one friend who enlisted and never left basic training. An early suicide.

I want to remember that guns arrived on the campus of Kent State, and this happened.

I want to remember that no one was to blame. Or I want to remember that everyone was to blame.

I want to remember that we must live in the culture we make.

And I want to remember that every day.