The convergence of loss: A tale in three acts.
I.
Their faces shuffle across my computer screen: save to desktop, import to iPhoto, crop, insert, repeat. One hundred-and-fifty-four of them. These are the people who have died in Afghanistan under Canada's flag since the military mission began in 2002. As each of these soldiers posed before a flag, shoulders back, jaw strong, their brows tanned, acne-scarred or age-lined, the occasional smile pulling at the edge of lips, did they ever imagine their image would cycle through my computer so I could affix it to a map of Canada marking their hometowns? Did the journalist and diplomat imagine that their bio-shots would be all that the world would see of them? So many names and faces, familiar from news stories and repatriations. So many home towns. So much life, relegated to a file on my computer that I cannot bring myself to delete.
II.
The crowd drifted apart, slowly at first, then with intent, until we were divided - a Red Sea of small crimson poppies. At the source, the Canadian flag waved over a cenotaph and a group of men and women stood in tall, clear-eyed lines. At their helm was a young man, the only one in camouflages, a web of scarring from left eye to chin marking him as the latest incarnation of a tradition as old as humanity. Behind him, silvered, weathered, marched his predecessors. Such is the final bitter blow of war, I suppose: Those that know its horrors must then stand back and let their children into the fold.
As the veterans marched under a sapphire sky, we the onlookers clapped. It was all we could do, to bear witness in thanks for all they bore witness to. I thought of my grandfather being handed a gun and learning how to fire it. I thought of my uncle, barrel-chested and proud in his uniform, heading to a war no-one remembers. I thought of those young faces, plotted on a map, some so remarkably resembling my friends that it pains me to look at them.
As the marchers turned down King Street and I stood watching their reflections pass under bare-limbed trees, the marching band launched into Waltzing Matilda. That is when I cried.
III.
We await news today. A body has been found in the woods near Seaforth, 80 kilometres west of Kitchener-Waterloo. There is a strong likelihood it is a good friend of A.'s, missing since he walked away from a family dinner in August. His disappearance first caused anger -- it's not the first time the kid had just slipped off the radar, and as his absence dragged on his friends were understandably annoyed. But then it continued, and continued, turning into months of speculation that he ran away, or was hurt, or in hiding, or just gone.
Now one of two realities is bearing down on these 17-year-olds: Either their friend died alone in the woods many months ago; or it isn't their friend at all, and they're no closer to finding out what happened to him. It's hard to decide which is worse.---
Addendum, Nov. 12:
It was A.'s friend out there in the woods. No signs of foul play, as the police so delicately put it. The boys worked through so much grief in the abstract. I guess we're about to find out how it translates in reality.
1 comments:
I loved convergence of loss-
In particular Act 2. I use to ring Grandpa on ANZAC Day and have a chat and thank him.
It is nice that someone else thinks of Dad sometimes.
Now I also think of Tyron, my eldest who served 2 tours of Iraq, at 18 and 19 years of age.
While he was there, I used to watch a news hour on SBS where the presenter silently showed the faces of those who had died that week.
I made myself watch that screen, so other mothers weren't looking at their sons faces alone-
Shannon
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