The Poppy
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It was an overcast morning. The wind was blowing from the north. I drove out to the British Normandy Memorial, just outside the village of Ver-sur-Mer. When I arrived, there was no one else there. It was quiet, except for the sound of the wind.
I walked up to the memorial, a series of white stone pillars rising from the grass. In the centre was a round bronze plaque, maybe five feet across. An intricate wire ran around its circumference, bent into words. I stepped closer to read them. Courage. Freedom. Sacrifice. The kinds of words you'd expect at a place like this.
That's when I noticed it - a bright red poppy, one of the artificial ones, had fallen onto the ground in front of the plaque. The wind must have blown it off from where it was perched on the memorial. I reached down and picked it up, twirling it between my fingers. Such a delicate thing. I stretched up on my toes and placed the poppy back on the memorial, wedging the stem into a crack in the stone.
Standing there, it hit me - the history of this place. Even though I was alone, I could feel the presence of what happened here, 80 years ago. The Battle of Normandy, June 1944. Thousands of men storming these beaches, many never leaving them. All those names etched on the pillars around me.
I stood there a while longer, hands in my pockets, staring out at the sea. The rows of white crosses at the nearby war cemetery stood out against the green fields. I thought of that poppy, how it had fallen but been returned to its rightful place. Like a small act of remembrance.
After a time, I turned and walked back to my car. The wind was picking up, clouds darkening the sky. A storm was blowing in from the north. I gave one last look at the memorial, the red poppy bright against the white stone, then got in and drove off, back to the present.
It was an overcast morning. The wind was blowing from the north. I drove out to the British Normandy Memorial, just outside the village of Ver-sur-Mer. When I arrived, there was no one else there. It was quiet, except for the sound of the wind.
I walked up to the memorial, a series of white stone pillars rising from the grass. In the centre was a round bronze plaque, maybe five feet across. An intricate wire ran around its circumference, bent into words. I stepped closer to read them. Courage. Freedom. Sacrifice. The kinds of words you'd expect at a place like this.
That's when I noticed it - a bright red poppy, one of the artificial ones, had fallen onto the ground in front of the plaque. The wind must have blown it off from where it was perched on the memorial. I reached down and picked it up, twirling it between my fingers. Such a delicate thing. I stretched up on my toes and placed the poppy back on the memorial, wedging the stem into a crack in the stone.
Standing there, it hit me - the history of this place. Even though I was alone, I could feel the presence of what happened here, 80 years ago. The Battle of Normandy, June 1944. Thousands of men storming these beaches, many never leaving them. All those names etched on the pillars around me.
I stood there a while longer, hands in my pockets, staring out at the sea. The rows of white crosses at the nearby war cemetery stood out against the green fields. I thought of that poppy, how it had fallen but been returned to its rightful place. Like a small act of remembrance.
After a time, I turned and walked back to my car. The wind was picking up, clouds darkening the sky. A storm was blowing in from the north. I gave one last look at the memorial, the red poppy bright against the white stone, then got in and drove off, back to the present.