A fictional letter from a Canadian Second World War veteran to his grandchildren:

It’s early morning as I write this, the kind of morning where the frost clings to the window and the kettle sighs on the stove.

Your great-grandmother is still asleep in the main floor bedroom since, for the both of us, the walk up those steps is too dangerous.

The house is quiet.

The clock is ticking on the wall — and at my age, every tick sounds louder lately. I’ve decided to tell you a story. My story. And after this, we won’t talk about it again.

Never. I’ve kept it tucked away for nearly eighty years.

But you’re old enough now: old enough to understand what that little red poppy really means.

When I was your age, the world felt wide and simple. My job was to help your great-great-great grandfather

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