It is the perfect ANZAC day.
A sky as grey and warm as an army blanket.
The leaves in the trees are motionless, as if they too know there is a need for a sombre earth.
I shirk from what it can mean. I would prefer we need not remember. I don’t like flags. Especially waving ones. I would like to be certain we are not glorifying. Instead why not mourn our failure to learn from what has gone before. March for Peace.
But. Maybe. If you have loved a solider and seen them sail away across a silver sea. Watched them turn to a speck. Felt the tug of their distance. And they have not come home, then today is something. Like medals, locks of hair, a remembered song. You loved them and they are lost.
The jets break the silence. So much louder when there is no air moving but them. They boom. They crack open the sky. They remind us war is anything but silent. Messy, bloody, dirty. Not like this still and perfect day.
A bugle is beautiful. How does he form the notes?
The reverence of ninety-three thousand football fans makes you hold your breath, while he hums a tune through pursed lips.
If only we could remember.