The first year I went up to Ecclesall war memorial, I stood there on my own for the two minutes of silent remembrance. This year there were five other men. We didn't exchange any words - just stood there in that bright autumn morning paying our respects to those who gave their tomorrows for our today.
For the past three years, I have taken fist-sized beach stones with me. Upon them I have written in permanent marker: "Lest We Forget". I put this year's stone on the memorial's plinth, hoping it might remain there for a full year but it never has.
Close by is All Saints Church which stands proud upon the ridge, overlooking this hilly city. You can see it from miles away. Affixed upon hessian to a churchyard tree was a wreath of knitted poppies - see above. Handcrafted poppies and I thought of the goodness of the maker or makers, sending a simple message of gratitude without words to those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
They did not make those wars. Those who bravely take up the call are the ones who die, the ones who are maimed, the ones who carry the ugly mental weight of war to their graves. Those who make wars tend not to die. They stand back from it. Safe behind the lines or secure in their bunkers.
I know that I am a few days late with this blogpost but homage and respect are not limited to the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Other days are ripe for remembrance too.
It's horrendous to think that after thousands of years of fighting, we don't seem much closer to peace. Humans are hard to deal with, and it's hard being human.
ReplyDeleteMen make wars. Women pick up the pieces afterwards.
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