There is the jacket I bought 5 years ago when I did the Black Friday shopping trip with Joyce and Carrie. I’ve only ever done that Black Friday road trip one time. Our dollar was killing it. It made such sense to go. I came back with savings beyond my imagination and, I admit, a bit of a hangover.
There is the pure wool scarf I bought in Ireland. Quentin and I went with Faith, to celebrate her 50th birthday. I had a tiny meltdown when I got a snag in it.
But there’s no Remembrance Day Poppy.
Don’t get me wrong. At this minute, I currently have 7 Poppies. 2 in the car, 2 on the dining room table by my wallet, 3 in a bowl here in the office.
I put one on, I check myself as I walk into a store, and it’s long gone. It’s in the garage, on the street or on the floor mat of my car. Or, it’s just plain vanished like a sock in the dryer. And I feel great shame, being seen without my Poppy.
“Ow! Dammit!” I prick myself on the Poppies more than I care to admit. I feel like they are punishing me for losing them as often as I wear them. “The Vets had it worse, babe” my husband gleefully chimes in.
Part of Remembrance Day is Remembering. Whether I have my Poppy on or not, I am Remembering. Quentin’s Dad was in the Armed Forces. He was actually in World War II. My Dad also served his country although he never saw battle.
Part of Remembrance Day is Tolerance. Different colors, political parties, religions. We all bleed red when we prick our finger on a Poppy.
Part of Tolerance is Not Judging. When you see me without a Poppy on, please know that my Poppy – and the sacrifices made by others for my freedom and in defense of this country – isn’t far from my thoughts.
Lest we Forget. ~Cherise