red, sun-soaked curtains

[fenella]

War, like beauty, is in the collective consciousness. It's a memory etched into my mind, gnawing at the base of my stomach, that leaves an empty void; one that can not be filled with honour, respectful distance, or a silent promise that I will not, ever, forget. The lost are too many. I want to know their stories, be able to call their faces to mind. Do they prefer to be forgotten?

I remember them with a bright, plastic poppy; stories of a fallen cenotaph in New Brunswick, the cross shattered; a wreath at the base of a rural statue, a solitary reminder of the hundreds and a cold November morning in Toronto. Strangers, grandparents, men and women who continue to fight, and die.

All I can say, knowing it's not enough, is thank you. And, I'm sorry.