Time. It weaves through all of us. Tumbles away from us. Envelopes us during unending moments of despair. And, stops breathtakingly for heartbeats when our underpinning drops away far too suddenly. Unexpectedly. Oh, and how it can somersault – leading us to reweave the unknown. Over and over she goes through time and space when memories cloud our blurred vision and the click of heels fills our ears. Marking time and standing still in the patterns of what it is to be flesh and bone in a world born of spirit. Generational. Through community of citizenship. Through ancestral ticking and counting of time. Lest we forget.
I stand on the ground my father did, when he was just a child. Searching for stardust that brushed his cheek through time. His hand no doubt in his father’s as his eyes cast upward – searching the sky as only a child can do. He holds the same hand that held and smoothed the rosewood pipe that was gently put in my pocket only hours ago by the man I love – who is grieving. Grieving for the woman who bore him – his mother’s body now lays in rest in the funeral home we march by. Sullen. Prayers softly spoken for dreams now ground to dust behind curtains falling in succession until the end of time. Lest we forget.
Clicking heels following a band proclaiming and rows of war veterans wearing rows of medals given for gallant acts, most long forgotten. Police march with pride and dignitaries row upon row. And, by the grace of God, I am among them. With honor I walk. Praying. Remembering. Searching through time for divergent threads and the reweaving of time. A portal for remembrance. Lest we forget.
I never met my grandfather who marched this very ground before me. WWI uniform worn proudly and honorably. His hands first touched this pipe in my pocket when he opened his government rations overseas. A fellow Canadian whose name I will never know no doubt wrapped wishes of health and wellbeing to the unknown soldier with this pipe – and still to this day those wishes warm the wood under my fingertips. My grandfather lived just steps away from where we pass now. His signature etched into a window of St. Peter’s Church Rectory in the late 1800’s when he was still a child. Just over there. Lest we forget.
His father before him, a man who prayed unceasingly for his fellow countrymen and a country on the brink of WWI. He came to this country to help build and instill that which we speak of when we touch the heads of children doused with Holy water. He stands now in my memory with his cape blowing in blurred vision – smiling softly at young children now waving beautiful crayoned poppies alighting popsicle sticks on the lawn of the church. And, the excited urging of their caretakers who hold their wee warmly wrapped bodies adoringly in a way that instills shouts of “Please remember!”. Lest we forget.
We turn toward the lake where my grandfather swam out to the lighthouse and around into the harbour in a daily way. Where my father worked on a ship that found its way back and forth to our neighbouring country. Where because of generations I had the freedom to laugh as a child tumbled in the waves. And, where I stand now daily – praying and searching a horizon for something I do not know. Lest we forget.
As we turn toward the cenotaph little has changed so old photographs say. Even the leaf blowers hum early this morning couldn’t take away the soil that holds decades of my family’s joys and sorrows. Hopes and dreams. All within footsteps of this space. Lest we forget.
Lines of us stand. Listening to the words of prayers from the podium and holding them in our hearts. Veterans swimming in memories none of us can truly touch. The words of In Flanders Fields are recited and I join in hearing my mother’s voice inviting me – just as I do my father’s in the pews when words passed down echo through time. I hear her voice telling the tale of blood red poppies. Of men row on row. Her second cousin John had written those words not long before she knew them by heart herself. Not long before footsteps had brought the names of three young men that were uttered one by one by a soldier’s lips on the doorstep of her Aunt – and then the news of the immediate release of a fourth son and that he was already headed home for a mother’s safe keeping. A mother falling to her knees through time until her body dropped out through the bottom of the world. Bodies in soil not of their own, but of brothers and sisters. Far away and tended to even to this day by young hands urged never to forget the sacrifices of war. The importance of friendship, honour and pride across borders. Valiency. Character. Men who walked into themselves in ways now often forgotten. Lest we forget.
I wear a brooch under my coat to keep my scarf tight around my body against the cold. The silver adorned on grandmother’s breast before me and in embrace of her family who died to hold up generations of others lives including my own. Of old letters lining envelopes so frayed by touch of tears and fingers. The broach lays over my heart matching and echoing the blood red poppy. My mother passed John’s words down to me when I was just a child standing in spaces of remembrance. Just as she passed on the necessity to stand. Still. No talking. Listen. Listen to the words and prayers on each cold November day and to the words and prayers in my heart. We will remember them. Mittened hand in my Mom’s. Feet frozen to slushy ground. Poppy worn proudly. Every year. O Canada. We will not forget them. And tears of remembrance during The Last Post. Lest we forget.
The Last Post echos out of the lips of a man grieving the far too recent death of his mother in the same way and for the same reasons as the man whose thoughtful heart has gifted the rosewood in my pocket. How can the bugler play such meaning in these days of such shock of personal loss I wonder. And, yet, how can he not for the same reasons. The spaces between the veils and how they fill our heart. I remember standing much the same way as a new young widow listening to the echoing sound of a soldier’s bugel with the same three notes. The American flag draped over my husband’s body. I stood there just as I did with my mother as a child with heels glued to the ground like generations before me.Searching. In my memory I stand sentry. Marine Corp escort standing beside me. The lone Marine playing this the last that my beloved Jim would hear from his brotherhood of men and women in uniform. Pride. Honour. I learned to walk and run in step with Jim on shorelines around the world, and the cadence of drills and invitation for more miles when my legs were weary. The things instilled when wearing unseen uniforms. The things passed along through time. Lest we forget.
My legs are weary now despite the instilled training. I dare not move although my knees are shouting for my attention. Names known and unknown to me dwarf me on all sides. It does not escape me. Who am I to stand here? And yet, I stand with pride and honour with stories sifting through the words at the podium forming prayers and story. We will not forget them. All of me and those who stand on all sides of me long gone and in this moment. A cast of thousands. We will not forget them. We all place the wreath that is wrapped with a ribbon stating ‘Canada’ through my hands. It is not mine to place, it is ours. It does not escape me. The wreath that carries the grief of unknown numbers of soldiers, mothers, and brothers. The unfulfilled dreams. The echoing of cannon fire. Of gallantry. Of pride. Of faith in something more through the fading eyesight of the dying. Of bodies drenched in blood. Of so much freedom-making that I find it difficult to even imagine a life without their ultimate sacrifice. ‘Who am I’, I ask over and over. Who am I. I feel my father behind me. His father before looking for his pipe in my pocket. And, his father too with the weight of responsibility of a white collar, and the hardship of generations that came before. The long hours spent listening to the same clock that marks time for me still in my house. Generational time. Of grief. Of unknown private prayers in the night. Of the soldiers known to me and unknown. Of all those who have fought for our freedoms. All heading out over the ocean with dreams to make this land strong and free. Back and forth they have sailed and flown through generations to bring ease to the lives that now encircle the cenotaph. Words sent forward in time from a soldier who now lays on a distant shore. With reminders of men who lay row by row. Lest we forget.
A wreath I lay daily in my heart and my prayers. In my choices. In my urging and desire for something more for those I will never meet. For the possible in a world full of terror. For the community I called home before I was born. To point the way out of hate and into the realms of knowing from the men and women on distant shores. To want something more spun out of the lives long forgotten. Lest we forget.
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How does one convey so much gratitude to families and individuals I will never have the good fortune to know. How does one convey the thanks for a freedom that feels it is swiftly disappearing. A freedom that could vanish before my very eyes. Of so much pride and honour and what it has stood for and the good it instills in the flesh and blood. Identity. Character. Of all that is good about being spirit in human form. Of what it means to be able to say with pride ‘I am Canadian’. I am free. I lay this wreath for all who have been slain, their families and all those who decide daily to fight for our freedom. All who have worn the uniform of a country I am proud to call home. Lest we forget.
In gratitude for Philip Lawrence, MP Northumberland Peterborough-South for granting me the honor of stepping into his role to lay the wreath for Canada during the Remembrance Day Ceremonies in Cobourg, Ontario, Canada. And, thank you to everyonoe who works diligently around the year to ensure that Remembrance Day Ceremonies in Cobourg, and around the world hold up that which we must never forget. I am grateful to you all.
