Well, This Is What I Think

 

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.

 

At the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. Forever.

The least – the very least – we can do, is to remember.

Not just those who died – so many, so young – but also for those who survived, broken but still courageous.

For a grandfather trawling for mines in Portsmouth harbour, a moment from death, day after day, for years.

For a father guiding convoys across the icy Atlantic, a moment from death, day after day, for years.

For an uncle surviving being a Pathfinder pilot, a moment from death, day after day, for years.

For the cousin imprisoned in the Far East and wracked with tropical diseases ever after, a moment from death, day after day, for years.

It is passing wonderful that any of them remained to any extent sane, and went on to raise families, run businesses, report the news, go to church, help their neighbours.

Lives cut short. Lives forever compromised. And for the civilian dead. And for all who served. None came through unscathed.

Until we have a world without war, we will remember. All of them, on all sides. And even then, we will never forget.