Lest We Forget

Excellence Award in the 'The Inside Story 2020' competition

Soft silvery light blankets the deep shadow of the mountain, gently caressing the quivering canopy and stirring slumbering animals awake. The pale pre-dawn sky is an artist’s palette; silhouettes of distant birds dot the blended pastel streaks decorating the heavens. Midnight’s shadows slink away silently, replaced by pearly grey light that peeks shyly through my windows. My eyelids flicker open and I inhale the sweet aroma of dawn. The alarm clock confirms my early arising, and I reluctantly emerge from my cocoon of blankets and pad towards my cupboard. I shrug on my favourite blue hoodie and exchange my scruffy trackies for a pair of jeans, cringing as the crisp air bites my bare legs. Cold metal brushes my shivering hands as they dive inside the hoodie pocket, and a sharp twinge greets my pinkie as I fumble a pin. Clutching the small brooch in my fist, I shuffle towards my door, whipping socks from my drawer on the way.

Warm light spills out the kitchen and I pause, allowing my eyes to adjust. A dressing gown-clad figure bustles around the tiled floor, assembling tea bags and thermoses into an old-fashioned wicker basket. I greet my mother with a simple nod, unable to articulate words as I yawn drowsily. The familiar smell of fresh Anzac biscuits tantalises my nostrils and I glance towards the oven, noting the golden-brown crisp adorning each cookie. I unfurl my fist and carefully attach the pin to my hoodie. Lest we forget, it reads. I won’t forget, Grandpa, I think to myself, I cherish spending time with our community, paying my respects to those, like you, who fought for our freedom. Sighing, I gaze out the window, focusing my eyes on the pure dawn sky; this year would be different. No marches, no services, no gatherings.

I nestle the blanket in the crook of my elbow as I trudge up my driveway. My free hand tucks a stray curl behind my ear and I attempt to flatten the worried creases visible on my forehead. What if nobody comes? Silence invades my ears as I approach the street level and I gulp away the lump forming in my throat. Nobody is there. Nobody cares. Tears of rejection, frustration, and most of all, disappointment leak down my cheeks and I turn back towards the house.

A comforting arm wraps around my shoulder, gently encouraging me forward. I peek at my mother through tear-glazed eyes, confused. Couldn’t she see there was no point? She squeezes me, and in that moment I realise it's not about me. Mum nods ahead, smiling.

Dozens of candles, held by children and adults alike, flicker quietly around our cul-de-sac. Bowed heads and clasped hands are illuminated as the sun’s first rays peep over the mountain. Despite the physical distance between us, we are united in spirit, remembering as one. Peace engulfs me as the Ode is recited, and I grin at my mum. This year is different, but we have not forgotten.


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Write4Fun.net was established in 1997, and since then we have successfully completed numerous short story and poetry competitions and publications.
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