ANZAC
The door closes behind her with an swift click and she treads lightly down the steps onto the dewy lawn.
The sky is heavy with rain clouds, people rushing down the path clutch umbrellas in case of a down pour, and she pulls her jacket tight.
Stepping out her front gate she looks up the road and sees a crowd gathering at the corner.
Slowly she moves forward, one foot in front of the other towards the gathering. Her brain still foggy with sleep matches the morning light, foggy from a long weary night.
As she approaches the corner she lowers her head, not sure she can smile at familiar faces or reminise happily with old friends.
She stops at the edge of a crowd, the shiny instruments of the band visible over strangers heads, her shining eyes hidden by a sea unknown faces.
Watching the ceremony quietly from the side lines she loses herself in her thoughts, her gaze fixing on the broad chest of an elderly gentlemen.
The polished medals proudly displayed on his breast pocket nudge her thoughts down a path she would rather not take.
Another breast pocket proudly displaying highly polished medals, another broad chest of an elderly gentleman ,still and silent in her memories.
Shaking her head she lifts her gaze to the high flying Australian flag, proud citizens signing the national anthem with conviction, on this day they truly mean the words that are often sung without a second thought.
Watching a small boy carry a wreath to the base of the monument and run coyly back to his beaming mother she remembers herself around that age doing the same thing.
The arms she dove back into not those of her mother but her beloved Poppy.
Her entire childhood revolved around events like this one. Her Poppy proudly sharing his achievements, the dawn service, the morning march and always lunch at the RSL, regaling her with stories of old.
Last year she marched for the first time without him, he proudly watching from the sidelines, her mother happily beaming at her grown up girl doing this precious thing for her darling Poppy.
A drop of rain clears the misty memories from her mind and looking around she sees umbrellas popping up all over.
To the strains of the Last Post the heavens shed tears and she stands in the rain letting her own fall freely to the ground, quietly whispering to herself Lest We Forget.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
_At the going down of the sun and in the morning _
We will remember them.
Wipping her tears on the back of her hand she looks to the sky with a smile and remebers her darling Poppy, gone now for 6 months.
Comments
A very sad and well written piece. I had to read it twice to realise that Poppy was not a name, but her father. When I realised that, it made me even sadder.
What is the “RSL”? I Googled it, but just got pages of stuff on social housing in the UK!
I forget sometimes that some things are uniquley Australian. Poppy is a name for a grandfather and the RSL is the Return Soldiers League, a body of social clubs for return soldiers and their families. Thank you for your genuine comments, It was ANZAC day here on the 25th of April and I attended the dawn service with my husband and children for the first time without my Poppy, a very sad but special moment.
– Tanya Bell
Sorry I hadn’t realised that Poppy was your grandfather, thank you for sharing such a personal piece of writing.
We have something similar here which is the Royal British Legion.
Take care
Micky
I loved this so much and have a tear in my eye as I’m writing this – wonderfully written – a true legacy to your loved one. This is always such a special day for all Australians and New Zealanders and we will never forget what they did for us all. It is so important to keep this day alive and I sit in awe each year as I see it grow with the younger generations even more determined to remember and thank the past generations for their sacrifices. Thank you so much for sharing this – I just love it!
Thank you, I find the march is a fantastic way to keep my Poppy’s memorie alive.
– Tanya Bell
Very moving!
Thank you Phil, your appreciation is most welcome.
– Tanya Bell