downFall

A haunting reminder which I cannot forget nor even temper arrives

annually on the crest of the cyclical ebb and flow of a season when

the chameleon maple leaves aquiver succumb to nature's

inescapable jaws as they detach from maternal roosts and gravitate

to the composting wasteland of the dead and dying below the

shameless naked trees from whence they came.

I bear a poled flag cradled in a scabbard not dissimilar to the ones

used to carry guns or swords prior to brandishing for slake of the

bloodthirsty. It digs into my thigh as the wind battles my youthful

frame for the right to parade our colours and the driving rain

wreaks havoc with my grip as fingers morph into frozen talons. I

have read the unfamiliar names on the cenotaph before and some

of my friends know uncles and cousins who are unfortunate

enough to be one of the many soldiers memorialized on that

solemn granite etching.

All stand at attention for a moment of silence, the laying of

wreaths and some words. Then the entire contingent parade back

to the beginning. I’m absolutely soaked, freezing cold and

confused.

I suppose that I should be thankful for something I can’t really

comprehend but why only a solemn day? To realize freedom the

maple leaf falls in sacrifice like our sisters and brothers before us.

Do you think those that we honor would be unhappy if we

celebrate their accomplishments?

I think not.

Life Preserved in Word