I love ANZAC Day. It is just the most beautiful, sad, poignant and significant day for me.
I march every year for my Grandfather Reg. Every year I get tears watching The Originals marching in front of me; I wonder at their pain, I dwell on the dwindling numbers of these brave souls, I give thanks to The Originals and their Comrades.
Standing in rank after the Last Post has played, silence.
A great yawning abyss of time in which I nervously anticipate the recital of Lest We Forget, my posture rigid, breathing shallow, awareness of my fellow Marchers’ acute.
And then it starts…
They shall not grow 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.
Lest We Forget.
It is the most hauntingly beautiful thing ever written.
After The March, we all came home and got on with our day. It was later when out in the garden, poking about, watching the girls playing that I really appreciated what their sacrifice means to me.
It gives me this, in a nutshell.
The freedom to grow and appreciate simple things.