Another Anzac Day passes and each year it feels different.
From memories of those I personally have lost, to memories of people the world has lost, and much much more.
Each time I stand by the cenotaph and listen to the readings, I think of all the horrific things that have happened on battlefields across the world. Not only that but all the witnesses to those things who have to live with those memories. Memories that are within, wounds that do not bleed, injuries most people will not even know about.
So many people pay their respects and each for a different personal reason. We remember them all but forget them too in the same instant.
Losing the past
So many people fought in the great wars and so many of them now gone. Less and less RSA members left to sell poppies on subsequent Anzac days. We remember them all yet are also losing them all.
Some years I have stood and wept at the deep sadness the dawn parade creates in me, other years I stand proud of all those men, known and unknown. My Grandad was one of those men who fought in the war. I’m so confused. We remember the event yet have no clue what the details are. We don’t know who’s wives, sisters or brothers they were. Desperately grasping at small straws of memories, in the hope that they will continue to bring us freedom for our futures.
Lest we forget, we will remember them: all of them.