In Silent Reverence

A quiet acknowledgment of loss and sacrifice woven into the fabric of the day

I wrote a different letter, planning to send it to you yesterday, at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. It was a good letter, full of thoughtful words about art and creativity as a window that can bring us close to the truths of war, asking us to not shy away, but to see, to feel, to remember. But somehow the words felt contrived, like they didn’t belong to me, and I called them back.

Instead, I offer just this, a glimpse of uncontrived reverence, and a poem that brings tears each time I read it.

Just inside the entrance to the road where we live, a circle of silver birches stand on a raised bank of grass. In the centre there is a single young oak tree. There is something almost magical about them, as if they have grown into this suburban landscape from another realm. The first time I drove here to see the house my husband suggested we might want to buy, I was captivated by these pale sentinels with dancing leaves and gently swaying branches. When I saw them, I knew I wanted to live here, before I even saw the house that would become our home.

Our neighbour, whose home lies just beyond them, is guided by a deep faith and devotion that compels him to honour holidays and commemorations by adorning the trees and bank in celebration and reverence.

This week, they host a display of red poppies and a poem of grief, connection and gratitude.

Amid the humdrum of my Sunday, in the comings and goings of a busy family, I drive out of the close, ferrying my daughter to meet her beau. By the trees, two neighbours stand in quiet, uncontrived reverence, hands clasped in front, heads gently bowed. Beside them, a dog waits patiently and obediently, sharing in their silent regard. For a moment, the ordinary yields to the profound; a quiet acknowledgment of loss and sacrifice woven into the fabric of the day. The next moment, we are passed the sentinels and their silent observers, and immersed once again in the ordinary.

The poem they stand before is ours. Words by Lydia, pictures by me.

And here it is, for you.

Remember

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Bye for now,