We arrived at the War Memorial just fifteen minutes before noon, and by then, the crowds were starting to thin out, with Yonge Street reopening. The winds were biting and made the cold even harsher.
I quickly put gloves on Matthew’s cold hands and added an extra hood to help him warm up. He perked up and was soon happily hopping along again.
As we got closer to the park, a lady was walking towards us, struggling to move. I quickened my pace and offered to help. She declined but mentioned her bad knees, explaining that she was soon due for surgery. She made it safely to the gas station and shared that she had been at the ceremony.
We were so close to the War Memorial that we pressed on, going against the flow of people. I’ve only been up the War Memorial tower twice before. It’s a profoundly empowering site, though also one filled with sorrow.

War Memorial, Town of Aurora
I’ve only ever heard war stories from civilians. My grandmother, my father’s mom, lived through both World Wars. She shared many heartbreaking stories with us. Now that my father is getting older, he too has started talking more about the past. He lost two sisters, just 3 years old and 1 month old, both of whom died from the shock of bombings. My mother lost two brothers who were executed.
I’ve been surrounded by the history of the World Wars for much of my life, but as I grow older, become more mature, and experience motherhood, it’s starting to hit me in ways I never fully understood before. It brings me a deep sadness that grows stronger each year.
When we finally reached the cenotaph, the wind was howling, and the cold was biting. Wreaths began to fall in the gusts, and without thinking, I found myself quietly picking them up, honoring the fallen in my own small way.






In Flanders Fields by John McCrae, May 1915
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.
COMMENTS
Marvin said: November 14, 2011 at 10:30
“Commonwealth citizens always do such a nice job of remembering their war dead.”