Remembrance Sunday has long been my favourite day in London. I love the massing of people along Whitehall, the legions of people walking solemnly, the sonorous tolling of the Great Bell of Westminster, and then the nearly absolute silence of the thousands. It’s a show of a kind of national unity, of course, together we mourn the losses of so many who have served in our name in so many wars on so many continents over so many years. Whatever we might think of those wars – more and less honourable ones at that – we honour those men and women.
Standing among those thousands in that silence I’m moved to imagine each of us with our own thoughts, our own tender hearts, our own crushing losses. So much feeling ritualised and made safer by the company and indeed the anonymity of the crowds. In addition to national unity, then, I feel on this day a naming and a space for grief. Grief so often stands in the background, being brave and alone, frighteningly needy, wanting attention, of course, but also fearing that it’s asked for too much already (shouldn’t I be over this by now?). Yet, here we are, days or weeks or years after the actual loss, still in pain.
I’m writing this on Wednesday morning, in the United States with a tight throat, a fractured heart, trying not to have a clenched spirit. Trying, as we so often do in the face of our grief, not to lose hope or faith, wishing today for the company of those standing along Whitehall – or you – acknowledging our tender spots and tending to each other. I’m grateful for all of you on this Remembrance Sunday.
Annette Atkins
