Armistice Day in Pink and White

I have a cameo, the one pictured here on photographs of my grandmother and some of her nine children. It's quite big for one of these things, and quite old too, being purchased in Italy by my great-uncle during the Great War. He bought two, and lived to bring them home: one for his mother, and one for his sister who was my grandmother.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place...

He was in the navy then and very young. When I knew him sixty years later he was still big, strong, handsome and always laughing, and I can only imagine what he was like back then, in his uniform and on the ship, among friends. And I like to wonder about the day in port when they went ashore to send their letters, and pick up small gifts for the girls and mothers and friends waiting for them at home.

...and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

When my mother handed this cameo to me the year before she died, I promised to take care of it, and to pass it down to my own daughter in turn, with its story. A gentle wash with clean water once a year, she said, a drop of oil: remember it's only a shell and it's old; don't let it dry out.
Ok, I said, knowing I'd never remember to do it... then a few days later I thought of what to do. I'd take it out the 11th of November every year, at 11am, and my minute of silence would be spent caring for this pink and white memory of my great-uncle and the family he loved.

We are the Dead. ...

I wonder sometimes, as I care for it, about his choice. In the middle of war, and on a Navy ship, purchasing something so fragile seems a brave (dare I say foolish) choice. And so femininely pink among all the steel and weaponry?—so odd.

What would I have chosen in his place? Something unbreakable perhaps – a silver cross or a ring? Or something more in context---a portrait of him and his comrades, a memory captured against the risk that some among them would be lost and perhaps forgotten? Or, something manlier---but what , and what would his 'girls back home' do with that?

 ...Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

After cleaning it, I hold it up to the light to find any dirt I missed, and the sun shines right through it in a glow of polished pink. I suddenly think of what a brave choice this was, to take on something so delicate and so precious, to care for it amid all the dangers and hardships of war.

Then I think of how fragile a sailor's life was in those war years, yet how precious to themselves and the ones back home, and suddenly his choice makes perfect sense. Suddenly I'm no longer thinking of his sacrifice so much as his mother's, and realise that perhaps, he may have been thinking the same thing.

The centenary years of that war are approaching now, and I like to think that my great-grandmother would smile if she knew her son's love for her would still be remembered in the family so many years later. But I don't think I'll pass it on to my daughter in the little blue box that it's lived in so long. I think the time's coming to frame it, along with other mementoes of its time, and let it remind my family of those long-ago loves and sacrifices every day of the year, not just this one.

...To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow...
In Flanders Fields

--by John McCrae, May 1915

For my great-uncles Charles Goodrich and August Bachman, and also my father and brother, my uncles, my great-nephew Bradley who died in Afghanistan in September, and all my nieces and nephews who are still alive and in uniform though behind your backs I call you nuts:

I love you, and wish you all a blessed and peaceful Armistice Day.