#2921 – Crested
Chatham, January 2020.
The memorial was silent. Silent, ironically, as the grave. He thought there would be more people here, more people to witness the moment, but instead it was him, on his own.
The sacrifices where all around him to view, to read. People he never knew – never would know – who had sacrificed their lives decades before he was born, under the direct instructions of men who did their bidding from an office desk, miles from where the real fighting was.
That was what galled him the most. These were people – decision makers – who knew nothing of what real fighting was, who knew nothing about real sacrifice, whose biggest sacrifice was having to use blue ink when writing because the stock of black was low. First World Problems.
The sun etched out the crest in stunning detail. Even from down here, the sky a clear blue on this cold, crisp January morning, the intricacy of the carving was clear. This had meant something to the craftsmen, whose friend or relative’s name may be – probably be – engraved in the bronze tablets around him. Visible only to him. Seen only by him. Understood only by him.