On November 11 this year, I reposted last year’s article that I was inspired to write after witnessing the gradual evolution of a Canadian cultural ritual around Remembrance Day (Veteran’s Day, Armistice Day) that took place at my local cenotaph. As you might expect, this year I took my lunch break early, since I was working at the bookstore, and when my men came to fetch me I went over to the cenotaph again, shoveling a sandwich in my face so that I would be free for the ceremony.
There had to be twice the number of people who were there than last year. I recognized the lovable dog I’d patted and the cute little girl in the pink jacket I’d smiled at; who was now a little taller. This time the cenotaph gate was still locked, but there was a scuffed poppy wreath already laid in front of it. My friends and coveners, who were there last year, came back as well, everyone with a poppy and a look of determination. I scanned the crowd and the gate for the elderly veteran whose words had so moved me last year; but he wasn’t there. Then Jamie nudged me and pointed. “Looks like the people might force them to bring it back to the cenotaph,” he said. “Check it out; we have cops and everything.”
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