Back in 2016, I shot a short film called Memorial Day in Michigan. It’s a quiet piece. No dialogue. Just visuals and music doing the heavy lifting.
The story follows a soldier seemingly watching over his family, close, present, lingering. He’s with them in everyday moments: a restaurant, main street, the backyard, the living room. But as the film unfolds, something feels... off.
And by the end, it becomes clear: he was never really there.
He was memory.
He was absence.
He was the echo that so many military families live with long after the uniforms are folded and the flags are delivered.
I made this film in 2016, before I had the high-end camera gear I play with now. Watching it today, there are shots that make me cringe — lighting choices I’d never make today, edits I’d tighten, color I’d grade differently. You know, the usual self-directed cinematic postmortem.
But here’s the thing: from a visual storytelling standpoint, I still think it holds up. Is that weird to say out loud? Maybe. But it’s true. After all, it did win a couple of festival awards and earned me an IMDb credit.
I made this film not as a technical showcase, but as a reflection of what Memorial Day feels like for some families — the haunting silence, the persistent presence of someone no longer here, and the weight of a sacrifice that doesn’t end with the war.
Until now, this film’s only been seen at a few festivals. I never released it publicly. I guess I wasn’t ready.
But this year, I am.
Because, in the US, Memorial Day isn’t just a date on the calendar or a mattress sale at IKEA. It’s a story we carry.
And sometimes, it’s a story best told without words.
— Wes
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