As I write, my father and brother back in Ontario are preparing to walk to the Cenetaph for the Eleven O’Clock Ceremony. They have to bundle up with scarves and toques. I suggest warm socks for my Dad and tell him I will be keeping warm in his pocket as I am not there with them in person. He has his medals out and my brother is commenting on how many there are; my father will not consent to wear any and this is fine and his choice. But this is the first time he has done this and I am deeply moved. I can’t imagine what he went through in the Second World War, this kind and gentle man who is my father: he would never speak of it, like many others. Nor did my Mother ever have much to say about the years she spent without him. But today I will be with him at Eleven O’Clock EST as he stands for an hour in the cold and listens to speeches and watches school children lay wreaths and sees other war veterans, the others who were lucky enough to come back, and remembers those who did not. Thanks, Dad.