I always cry at ANZAC services. My father fought in the Second World War and still proudly marches, although he is 87 this year so I don't know if he did march or not. His father fought in the First World War and was gassed. Years ago I found the Wilfred Owen Poem Dulce et Decorum Est and I thought of my grandfather. Apparently he came back from the War much changed. I never knew my grandfather of course. He died in London in the Second World War more than ten years before I was born.
I cry because I feel the hopes and the fears of the young people marching bravely off to war and of those watching the march. Unlike those standing there that day, we know how it ended. We know that so many of them died or were changed forever in ways that made them distant damaged people. Yet I have known the stories of so many who lived lives believing that it was what they had to do so that we could be safe. It was a cost that had to be paid.
My Dad is a warm loving person. And I miss him a lot. He is in Queensland and I am in Canberra. Here is a photo of him getting ready for the march, 1995.
