First Lieutenant Matthew Lynch, who graduated from Duke in 2001 and died last November, had a lot of things to carry in his heart.
He carried letters from Ramadi, Iraq, postmarked to Bill and Angela Lynch of Jericho, New York.
The dud rocket-propelled grenade that landed a few yards away from his comrades in the 2nd Batallion, 5th regiment of the 1st U.S. Marine Corps Division near Ramallah.
Gauze for the spots where his wisdom teeth used to be, taken out on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001, in the dentist's office he had visited for some 22 years-the day, as his father Bill puts it, his life began to end.
A cocktail napkin or two from The Globe and Laurel, the bar in Quantico, Virginia, from his Officers Candidate Course days.
He carried a pair of swimming goggles from his days on the varsity team at Duke.
A New York Mets pin.
The machine gun he used to save his brothers in arms when he sprinted to an American tank and told the commander to take out a house filled with enemies.
He carried guitar tabs for the band he was going to start in downtown Manhattan after his last tour in the Marines.
Sometimes he carried good luck charms, though everyone said he didn't need it.
He probably carried a few-maybe a lot of-phone numbers from his warm summer days lifeguarding back home down at Jones Beach.
He carried a sense of humor and a few nicknames: "Where's Duke?" they'd all say.
He never carried a chip on his shoulder.
Faith-in his mother, Angela, his brother Tim, his father, platoon, his country. In himself.
The admiration of his buddies, who scribbled on a little Marines globe sitting in his parents' house:
We will follow you anywhere if you lead us.
We will never forget. Sgt. Trout.
The best lieutenant. Sgt. Uribe.
Doesn't anyone knock anymore? Hillier.
Dignity, majesty and courage under fire.
Bigger shoes than most of us could ever hope to fill.
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