Lest We Forget

I thread my way through the small crowd gathered around the cenotaph. People stand loosely spaced, a polite metre between each. A broad mishmash of my neighbours tending toward older, a few holding bicycles or babies. A scattering of poppies.

I stake my spot beside the young air cadets in their motley uniforms: some sharp at attention in perfectly pressed blazers, powder-blue garrison hats perfectly pitched; others fidgety in wrinkled pants. A mix of boys and girls, all Asian. A little ragtag but giving it their best. Nobody giggles or looks at their phones.

I have arrived just in time for the ceremony. The MC speaks of the 70th anniversary of the armistice of the Korean War—yet another forgotten war, overshadowed by others more glamorous or dire. He commemorates 22 young soldiers killed in Ontario, not in combat but in a highway bus crash on their way to the barracks. The Padre in his white robe speaks of the God that unites us, and of those who die for our freedom ‘because freedom does not come for free’.  

The woman beside me is holding a scruffy terrier, and I reach over now and then and skritch its ears.

It is ten past eleven now and it feels like something is about to happen, but nothing happens. The MC calls for The Last Post — the searing trumpet call for end of battle. Apparently there is a tech problem. He calls again. Nothing happens. The MC sighs with resignation, “we shall make do, as always…” and calls for two minutes of silence. We stand in silence—and then finally the PA kicks in and the trumpet plays, and then we make up the remaining two minutes. Two old warplanes fly overhead. Wreathes are laid by our MLA in her sexy high boots, then by the Scouts, the Union, the Anatolian Club rep in red-tipped-feather hat, and the local rugby team resplendent in knee socks. The MC barks out, “The King”! and I think – the King?! Oh right, the KING! – and then the PA plays an abbreviated marching-band version of  God Save the King, and some people in the crowd know the words and sing along.

Finally the MC calls for the White Spot Pipe Band to play Amazing Grace. The lead piper and soloist is called Colin (of course) and he is stunning. Slim and dark-haired in kilt and sporran, Colin looks like an extra from a Scottish Tourism video. The hymn is punctuated by a few off-key honks from somewhere deep within the band, but seriously, there’s not much you can do to wreck Amazing Grace. It’s gold. On the last note the pipers release their bags and the drone ends with a sudden silent gasp. The Pipers lead the parade out of the park and down Commercial Drive, followed by the vets in uniform on foot and in wheelchairs, the cadets, a small vintage jeep, and a hundred or so neighbours. Everyone heads toward the Legion for refreshments and activities for the kids.

I know I am supposed to be thinking of War and Sacrifice and Honour on this day. My mind wants to tear all those concepts apart, to plumb them for meaning and argue and eviscerate them. But I can’t resolve this. It is human and strange and whatever drew us to the cenotaph today we all stand alone, connected by the 10,000 sorrows.