A week or two ago, when I stopped by the mall, I passed by a table with a veteran sitting there selling poppies. I passed by without giving it much thought, but after I’d made my purchases I decided to go back and make a small donation. I’ve been wearing my poppy since then. I’ve been dutifully keeping an eye on it, making sure that it didn’t come off my jacket, as they’re known for doing. Coming out of the theatre after seeing Borat, I noticed that it fell off. I spotted it lying on the carpet, at the bottom of the escalators. I went back, and picked it up despite the fact that there had been people trampling all over it. I brushed it off and re-pinned it to my lapel.
Even though my family is one of immigrants, I’m not ignorant to the fact that the way I live my life today is a direct result of people making sacrifices during the wars of old. I’m thankful, and I guess keeping guard over my little poppy is perhaps the least I could do to express my gratitude. The veterans need us more than ever. As time passes, the wars fade in the conscience of the public. It can’t be helped; it’s fact of time, right. We need to make sure that those who did battle are not forgotten–not necessarily in name, but moreso in deed.


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