Remembering

I have been wearing my poppy for over a week now. I spotted the change bucket and the little pile of red plastic flowers while waiting in line at the bank. I put in my money and attached my poppy to the left side of my jacket.

The simple act of pinning this flower to my jacket brings back many memories:

-as a young child, the shock of learning that people killed each other in such terrible ways
-the neat little rows of the poem In Flanders Fields, hand copied by fellow students onto ruled paper and then stapled onto school bulletin boards:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row

-the RCMP officer standing in dress reds at the local cenotaph. How could he stand still so long?
- taking the poppy apart at recess, putting the red part in our mouths and making fake lips and then wondering inside if we had done something wrong.
- watching all the red flowers go by as people walk down the street. If you just look at the flowers, it looks like the poppies are carrying the people across crosswalks, along the street, and into buildings and cars.
- wondering at the memories of all the aging men wiping their eyes, rows of medals pinned against fading blue blazers.
- last year in Paris for Remembrance Day. Poppy red against a black jacket. I turn to look north towards the D-Day beaches.

The poppy won't let you forget. Its construction includes a long, straight pin that sticks out of your jacket. It catches on the sleeves of other poppy wearers. It finds fingertips when you  get dressed. It pokes you in the back when you lay your jacket over a chair. It constantly works its way loose and drops to the floor where people find it and say, "You dropped your poppy." and you put it on again. You are always checking to see if it is still there.

I suppose there are some that glorified this day at one time as a reminder of victories in Europe. I feel the prick of the pin against my skin and wonder where my friends and family would be in another time. I wonder why we insist on killing each other in the Sudan, in the Middle East, and in our cities. I remember we, as humans, still kill for some, perverted version of glory, or nation building, or even peacemaking. I know there are reasons to defend ourselves and others. I watch a new group of children coming to terms with the idea that we really do kill each other and I see the men, older still, wiping the tears away. I remember I must do the hard work of peace daily in my own heart.