Remembrance

The old man waited for the crowds to disperse. His face was lined and serious, but he didn't look unhappy. His eyes bore both pride and sadness, but something about his delicate movements displayed contentment, or at least acceptance. He wore his smartest black jacket, with medals attached. His trousers were ironed perfectly with seams running down each leg. His white hair was neatly combed back, and his shoes were lovingly polished. He walked slowly and deliberately, unconcerned that he was travelling against the flow of traffic. They may have done their bit, but there was still something he must do.

As the parade prepared to leave, the marching band attempted to start up. The troops came to attention, the Brownies and Boy Scouts fidgeted, but few seemed to notice him. Glancing between his goal and the uneven ground beneath, he approached the war memorial. It was already surrounded by impressive wreaths, but was yet missing one thing which he carried, a simple wooden cross with one Poppy attached. Quietly he paid his respects. He stood before the stone memorial and knelt unsteadily to place his tribute. He remained there for a moment, one arm bracing himself against the stone, one hand lightly upon his cross. He was only six years old in 1945, but the war had affected him deeply. He pictured hazy memories, people he had loved dearly and some he had never had the chance to grow up with. Slowly he rose again, stood to attention and saluted.

"At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them."
We Will Remember Them.