Poppy Season

Every year at this time, Canadians see poppies wherever they go. The Royal Canadian Legion sells them for a cash donation at grocery stores and shopping centres. All you have to do is put some change in the bucket and a war veteran will gallantly pin a poppy on your lapel. It’s a very small way to acknowledge the sacrifices our veterans have made on our behalf, a bright little ‘shout out’ to show support and remembrance.

I’m ashamed to admit that there have been years when I haven’t worn a poppy. Not because I don’t want to support our veterans, or because I’m not proud to wear it. It’s not the actually wearing of the poppy, it’s the purchasing; I feel at a loss for what to say when I approach a veteran to buy my poppy. I feel like a simple ‘thank you’ in wholly inadequate. ‘Thank you’ is what I say to the skippy who bags my groceries, so surely it’s not enough for someone who risked his life for my freedom. I want to say that I’m proud of our veterans, but that somehow seems patronizing. I want to tell them about my own grandfather, who spent years in a prison camp in Germany during World War II, and how buying a poppy makes me think of him and what he went through, not that I really know, because he never, ever talked about it. But that seems like a whole lot more information than they’re looking for, those who sit and wait patiently for the next person to pick up their poppy, without ever badgering or offering. I want to say so much, but it all seems so wrong that I simply say nothing. Which certainly isn’t right.

I’m not sure what I’ll say, but I won’t let the sun go down tomorrow without stopping for a poppy.