I did not post on Remembrance Day, but I remembered. I sent Little Red to school the day before with one of my childhood poppies pinned to his shirt. I knew the chances were high that it would not survive the day, and I was ready for that sacrifice; the more important thing was that I was teaching him that we do not forget.
He was still wearing it when I picked him up at the end of school. He didn’t completely remember why, but I still considered it a win. He is only four.
The following day, a holiday, I crocheted a couple of poppies and passed them, along with a copy of In Flanders’ Fields, to the two women I would see that day — two women I love dearly and I knew would understand my reverence for the day. I had my moment of silence in the Dentist’s chair, a strange place for such a sacred event, but was able to talk with the dentist about the poppy and it’s significance. I achieved deep relaxation in that chair — the most relaxed I have felt in a long time, and was grateful for both the holiday and the appointment which forced me to take a few moments to think.
It will always be a sacred day for me. It may not be so in the greater population, but I can instill reverence for the day in my children, and carry the tradition along. When they are older, I will teach them of my Grandad, and my Great-Grandad, and the legacy they have left for us. This year, a poppy will suffice.