Saw Sunset Glow

November 11th. On this day, at the 11th hour, the war that witnessed many lives lost, was over. WW2, it's respectfully known as.

I don't have stories to tell of grandfathers/grandmothers past who took part and fought the good war. I don't have stories of a brave soul at war. I don't have stories of a lost soul at war. I don't have stories of a woman tending her home at a ripe age while supporting the troops of her homeland.

No, these are not stories that I have stored in the most treasured spot to reference those gone before me. I was born in Trinidad, to which I lived the most amazing nine years of my life. What I knew were Coos. I lived through one, though young. Sure we had our fair share of 'wars', but nothing that holds stories to my heritage past. In some cases, I've been saddened by this simple fact; especially now living in Vancouver and hearing valiant, heroic stories of grandparents, uncles, and aunts of friends. Seventeen Remembrances I've lived through, and the same thought never fails to come to me. But, in a split second my mind becomes grateful. Grateful for the life I've lived. Grateful for my past and history. Grateful for the lives that I've never met, who fought and gave their body, soul, and mind all so I can now have the freedom that currently surrounds me. Grateful to the families who shared their sons, daughters, brothers, dads, and mums. Grateful for this country which I so graciously call home- Canada.

But, it does not end in the past. There are still men and women who are selflessly serving their country. Who are still protecting our freedom. To them, with tears in my eyes and a very heavy heart, Thank You. A thousand times over, Thank You.

Today (and always), I remember.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."

Major John McCrae’s 1915 poem In Flanders Fields