An essay written by my daughter:
(Taken from her blog, with permission)
Imagine at first, everything is bright and loud and clear. Joking with other guys your age. The boat ride there, the sky and ocean the same shade of brilliant, dazzling blue. The morning sun, throwing sparks off the glittering expanse of water. It is starting to fade, though, just a little.
Imagine the first day. Going to the battlefield with so many soldiers, and leaving it with so many less. The colours aren’t as bright as they were yesterday. Sweat drips from all the guys’ faces, but somehow, the smell isn’t as strong as usual, and your body feels so heavy and your eyes keep brimming with tears, and all you want to do is sleep.
Imagine the days are going by so slowly, too slowly. It keeps fading, and you’re aware of that, but you feel as if you can’t stop it. The wind sweeping brownish-gray leaves across the drooping grass isn’t as cold or as sharp as you remember it being on the first day.
Imagine thinking of your mother every day, wondering if she’s okay, hoping she’s not worrying too much, but of course she is, because she’s your mother. And imagine wishing your eight-year-old sister would stay inside, instead of going out into possible danger to play.
Imagine the day he left. Your little boy, going off to war. So young, too young, to be allowed a gun. Your little girl doesn’t understand. She runs outside joyously to play with her friends, but you collapse as soon as she’s out the door.
Imagine waiting for letters, for any news at all, of what’s happening out there. Your son couldn’t be hurt yet. It’s too soon. And even though you know a letter couldn’t get here this fast, you still keep looking out the window for the mailman.
Imagine the days are going by so slowly, too slowly. Colours blur together as you think about what could happen. Your throat feels drier than usual, and you wonder if the red of the teapot was a bit brighter before .
Imagine trying to stop worrying, but being unable to digest the leaden knot that has taken residence in your stomach. Your throat is always too tight, your shoulders are sagging, and the children’s laughter seems so far away.
Imagine it’s faded completely now, a trail of ashes. Your soul is gone, leaked out the bottoms of your boots as you marched. The world is black and white, all you can hear is a constant rain of gunfire, and you feel nothing. Nothing at all.
Imagine your cheeks are wet and salty, now more often than not. The letters from your boy are still coming, but shorter, with less personality. Your daughter’s cheeks are no longer pink, the teapot no longer red; the colours have faded, because you know. He won’t be the same when he comes home. He’s only eighteen. If he comes home, he won’t be the same.
32 thoughts on “For Remembrance Day…”
Your daughter has a book blog too! That’s awesome. You must be proud. She has a lovely name, too — how do you pronounce it?
I *am* proud. She got to read this essay at her school’s Remembrance Day service yesterday. 🙂
Her name is pronounced Eye-la.
Ok, I figured. I think that’s the same as the Scottish island.
Yes, exactly! Not many people over here know that.
Your words are echoes in my mind & soul. You’ve written a deeply-moving, thoughtful & wise post. “Imagine” indeed. Thank you from one Canadian heart to another. Kelly of Bibliobroads
Shes very happy you like it. Thank you, Kelly! 🙂
A lovely, heartfelt piece of writing – the red teapot is a poignant touch
The red teapot is my favourite detail – I keep picturing it fading. Thanks for reading!
It’s so lovely. She’s caught that fading of the world almost into monochrome that takes over as we grapple with loss. Very mature!
p.s. Islay, I have shared your blog post on Bibliobroads because it is inspiring. It shows that young Canadians are as wise (wiser, sometimes) & as thankful as adults.Inspiring. Bibliobroads
Incredibly poignant and evocative. Wow. What a beautiful essay.
I thought so, too. Thanks for reading it! 🙂
She is a wonderful writer!
Beautiful – brings tears to my eyes!!
Thank you (on behalf of my daughter). 🙂
Amazing! She has talent!! Thank you for sharing. And thank her for permission to do so! 🙂
I will. And thanks for reading, Lynn!
I can only add my voice to the chorus of praise – such a moving piece. Thank you for sharing this.
Thanks, Jacqui! We’re happy you liked it. 🙂
Very moving. You should be proud.
I am. 🙂
Aah, I’m also going to point out how cool it is that your daughter has a book blog! Awww, like mother like daughter.
Such a lovely essay. You must be very proud. ❤
With everything else she has going on, she doesn’t have a lot of time for her blog, but that’s as it should be at her age. She just posts when she wants and when she has time. I like how colourful it is. 🙂
Thanks for reading her essay!
That’s beautiful, Islay! (Thanks for sharing, Naomi!)
You must be so proud, Naomi! She’s a beautiful writer and I love that she blogs about books too. You two must have the best conversations. (And yes, I love her name too!)
Thank you, Cecilia! We do have fun talking about books. Even when we’re talking about completely different ones at the same time. 🙂