Bright red poppies pinned to coats of somber colours.
Collars turned up against the wind.
The tone of bagpipes, the boom of drums. The muffled thump of footsteps in time.
Elderly men, medals affixed, march ahead with pride. Their heads are high, the memories of those who no longer march still fresh in their minds.
Young men and women, uniforms crisp, follow. Proud too, but new. Eager.
The streets are lined on both sides; the older generation heavy with memory, the younger generations with stories of parents and grandparents. The youngest do not know why there are there, or why we are silent. They will come to know in time.
Lest we forget.
Motherhood (and all the rest) 