Geoffrey Morris lives forever as a 19-year-old Marine serving bravely in a Middle East desert.
His thoughts dart from nervousness for the mission ahead to love for his family to faith in God's will for him.
And every time his family in Gurnee reads these thoughts in his last letter home and final journal entry, they're transported, however briefly, to his side in the spring of 2004. Father Kirk Morris and sisters Jennifer and Lauren cherish Geoff's last written words as a way back into his heart and soul.
"He had a way of writing … he was an amazing kid," Kirk says, cradling the precious pages in his hands. "I can feel it, you know? I can feel the oppressive heat. I can feel the sun. I can feel the sand. I can feel the nervousness that he had, too."
The Morrises are among four suburban families who, on the eve of Memorial Day weekend, shared with the Daily Herald the last written words they have to keep alive a beloved son, brother or husband lost in the Iraq war.
Geoff's final letter arrived just a day before his family learned he'd been killed.
The Landeck family in Wheaton relishes a final e-mail exchange with their son Kevin, nine hours before his death.
For the Nurnbergs of McHenry, it's father-to-be Keith's hand-scrawled words on a get-well card to his grandmother last summer.
And the Olsons of Elk Grove Village can just feel 21-year-old John's humor and warm smile in his last letter, which arrived the day after they were told he had died.
Kirk Morris's eyes stream with tears - four years after his son's death from enemy fire in Iraq - as he reads Geoff's words comparing the wind in his face and the bouncing of the military vehicle beneath him to the sensation of being with his father again, fishing on their boat.
Geoff's sisters, now 21 and 18, openly weep over his words, feeling his loss as freshly as if it were yesterday.
"It never gets easier," older sister Jennifer says. "You just learn to live each day as it is."
Even images of Geoff in a raw home video of his last Christmas don't evoke the same powerful emotions as do these scribbled insights to his soul.
"I'm a little scared, and I don't want to die," Geoff writes. "But who wants to die?"
Rich and Vicki Landeck of Wheaton still pore over the transcript of a middle-of-the-night instant-message conversation between Rich and their son, Army Capt. Kevin Landeck.
It wasn't supposed to be the final record of his life. Now it immortalizes the humor, camaraderie and deep connection father and son shared mere hours before Kevin was killed by an explosive 15 months ago.
Rich: "Hang in there, bud. You are halfway through this mess … we hope."
Kevin: "Yeah, I don't mind doing dangerous stuff along this line of work, but let me do it my way and get rid of all the B.S."
The exchange is peppered with the upbeat jokes of a father and son who are close. But Rich is left emotionally drained each time he revisits this final talk with Kevin.
"It's a tough letter to read," Rich says. "But I did get to tell him I loved him, and he told me he loved me."
A last letter can take many forms - a personalized message in a greeting card, a voice mail on Mother's Day, even a newborn son to carry on the family's story.
In the case of Army Cpl. Keith Nurnberg of McHenry, it's all of these.
Keith was killed by a rocket-propelled grenade in Iraq last Sept. 5, weeks before his 27th birthday.
On Nov. 24, his wife Tonya gave birth to their only child, Keith Jr.
"We'd talked about naming him Keith last July," Tonya says, recalling the excitement both felt about the arrival of a son. They'd married the previous December but had known each other 10 years.
"I knew I was a soldier's wife and I was very proud of it," Tonya says. The little boy in her arms seems fascinated by images of his father: on the commemorative dog tag around his mother's neck and in a photo display at his grandparents' McHenry home.
"He knows that's his daddy," Keith's 25-year-old sister Kimmy says.
Baby Keith's birth was a blessing for the family - but also a reminder of the joy his father wasn't there to share.
The last written record of Keith's thoughts is in the postscript to a get-well card to his grandmother. But his mother Barbara's most prized possession is the voicemail he left for her on his last Mother's Day.
"Hope you guys are doing good," Keith says, sorry to have heard his mother had to work that day. "I'm doing good. I love you guys. Happy Mother's Day, Mom."
"The one thing I really miss," Barbara sighs, "is the sound of his voice."
Marine Cpl. John T. Olson of Elk Grove Village was 21 when he was killed in Iraq in February 2005. He was on his third deployment - this one voluntary.
Three years on, the loss of her only sibling is still devastating to Courtney Olson, 19.
She trembles with grief and fear as she considers the possibility of being alone in the world one day, should anything befall her parents.
"It's just really hard to think that I'll never have nephews or nieces," she cries. "I want my brother to be there when I get married, and I wanted to be there when he got married. There's nothing like a brother-sister bond."
But the spirit of John's mischievous humor, twinkling eyes and infectious smile lives on through his last letter - made more bittersweet by its arrival the day after notification of his death.
"So, did you have a good B-day, Courtney? I'm sure you did. The best B-days I've ever had are the ones I've spent in the Marine Corps. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
"When the chips were down, John was the one to bring them up," says his father, also named John.
"He always kept a sense of humor, no matter what," Diana Olson says of her son.
She remembers that one of his earlier letters began with him joking that he was writing from the beach before realizing he was daydreaming and still in Iraq.
Such a vibrant soul doesn't allow itself to easily become a mere memory.
"I do know he's with us … every moment," his father says. "I was never a big believer in signs, but we've had quite a few.
"He's here with us, he's definitely here with us," the elder John says. "We definitely feel his presence."