LEST WE FORGET OTHERS
Thursday Nov. 12, 2015
Others.
Mothers.
So many others. So many mothers.
Fathers too.
Everyone who lived, lived.
But did they survive? Walking talking victims. So much more to say than what we can say in one day …
Those many who sacrificed lives. Many more citizens of many countries whose only error was being in the wrong place at a horrible time – those who went to liberate them too, sacrificed their innocence, their youth – returning changed, rearranged and many deranged.
How could they not be?
What they saw, what happened to them, their friends, their families. Flesh and blood. Atrocities. Genocide. Graves. Buttons and decorations. Medals. Statues. Cenotaphs and memorials. Crosses. So much said, of those dead. Not enough said of those who lived, lived through it …
So many returned from wars, to rubble. Most, to something or someone. Returned home to open arms, returned to opportunity, especially to that kind that didn’t look like opportunity when first they saw it. But indeed, they saw it. At first it might have just felt like school or the farm or a job for paltry wages. But their ability to see had been altered, their vision enhanced because of the demons they fought or were ready to fight …
Opportunity is not obvious, which does not mean it doesn’t exist – that simply means you can’t always see it. Opportunity is not scarce, it is plentiful. Opportunity exists, whether we see it or not. It comes in many forms, wears overalls and looks like work sometimes. It gets dirt under its nails, is nourished by sweat and washed with tears. Opportunity seldom knocks. Sometimes it breaks down the door, but most often opportunists are blazing a trail somewhere else where there are no doors and there are no walls – they’ll build those when they have time. They have no time for pen or paper, no time to write it down or write it out. There is always time, but never enough.
Writing room – is that place, perspective or viewpoint?
We are all writers. Some using simple tools of pen, paper, keyboards and ‘saved’ documents. Others use actions as their paint brush – leaving story on canvas, writing their story in action stanzas and poetic gestures that imprint on all who watch or hear …
Everyone else writes their story, explains their reasons and makes their point with other tools. Handshakes, back-slaps, cheers. Pulling hard. Pushing far. Leading teams, following the leader, lending a hand, putting shoulder to a wheel – so many people tell their story with leathery hands and faces – they’ve faced their demons, spilled their guts, walked the line and made someone’s life worthwhile as well as their own.
Yesterday’s homage to those who fought, not just those who led. We honoured dead, wounded, walking talking ones who went, who stood ready to go and those who returned to build and rebuild and rebuild what had been destroyed, to finish their lives which had been put on hold, as if that war was one act in a much larger play …
Mark Kolke
written / published from Calgary, AB
morning walk: -1C/30F, skimpy clouds, steady breeze – whatever quiet there might have been was drowned by a long train going by; light cars are noise, heavy ones run quiet and two-engines – one pulling, one pushing – gave the morning air the sounds of prairie wilderness winters; Gusta had a good output morning and we semi-jogged in what’s left of that snowy blanket …
Reader feedback:
PEACE TIME
Yes, remember them. But why do the wars never end?, LH, Lethbridge, AB
Wonderful column today, Mark. Poignant memories!, BR, Calgary, AB
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