I bought a poppy the other week, like I always do, and popped a donation in the box, affixed it to my lapel, and carried on business as usual.
Same old routine, year in, year out.
I mean, I know what the poppy is meant to mean, it means "rememberance".
So I wear my poppy, just like everyone else does.
Same old routine, year in, year out.
Until this year.
You see, I took my jacket off rather awkwardly, and managed to p r i c k my finger on the poppy pin.
I examined by finger, and there on the tip was a small drop of bright, red blood.
My blood.
It matched the colour of the poppy perfectly.
And I sat down, shocked, as I realised that all my hurt and pain paled in to insignificance compared to the sheer amount of blood lost in the various wars that have passed and are in progress.
And I thought of those who had fought against their will, those who had fought gladly, those who had died in abject horror and suffering, and those who had emerged the other side, hollow and forlorn, broken and battered.
And I looked at my drop of blood and thought, "I cannot even begrudge you this, without complaint and anguish" and then I realised that the poppy means many things to many people. Not just rememberance, or suffering, or gratitude.
For me, it means all these things and more, but above all, it means sacrifice.
A life given, whether willingly or not, morally right or not, fairly or not.
A life given where I would not give my own.
Thus I wear my poppy to remember all these things, including my own shame.
Same old routine, year in, year out.
I mean, I know what the poppy is meant to mean, it means "rememberance".
So I wear my poppy, just like everyone else does.
Same old routine, year in, year out.
Until this year.
You see, I took my jacket off rather awkwardly, and managed to p r i c k my finger on the poppy pin.
I examined by finger, and there on the tip was a small drop of bright, red blood.
My blood.
It matched the colour of the poppy perfectly.
And I sat down, shocked, as I realised that all my hurt and pain paled in to insignificance compared to the sheer amount of blood lost in the various wars that have passed and are in progress.
And I thought of those who had fought against their will, those who had fought gladly, those who had died in abject horror and suffering, and those who had emerged the other side, hollow and forlorn, broken and battered.
And I looked at my drop of blood and thought, "I cannot even begrudge you this, without complaint and anguish" and then I realised that the poppy means many things to many people. Not just rememberance, or suffering, or gratitude.
For me, it means all these things and more, but above all, it means sacrifice.
A life given, whether willingly or not, morally right or not, fairly or not.
A life given where I would not give my own.
Thus I wear my poppy to remember all these things, including my own shame.
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