November 11, 1945 was the first Poppy day after the terrible battle. I walked silently along with the costumed people.
Hundreds of white crosses stand there, each with a poppie flower attached to it, and above each cross are pasted names, military ranks, ages, and a color photo.
They are not neatly arranged, but it makes people feel more sad. It seems that these young lives can be felt. Maybe a year ago, they were still drinking draft beer in the pub, whistling to the girl, "Dance with me How about dancing?"
The lady who had been standing in front of me in a gown suddenly bent down and stared at the front for a long time. She was wearing a black veil, tears rolled down, and her makeup was faded. I handed her the towel, and she choked up and thanked .
Everyone is depressed.
No one spoke, everyone bowed their heads and said silently, "For Britain".
When I walked to the front, I was suddenly attracted by a photo.
It was a young man with a warm demeanor.
His face was paler than usual, with high cheekbones, long eyelashes, and deep green eyes like opals in an antique shop. When he smiled, the corners of his mouth were bent into a proper arc, and the tone was soft and warm.
That feeling is familiar, but only for a moment.
How incredible, these unique and warm descriptions flooded into my mind at once, as if I had used them before. I bet, this person should be very good at playing the piano, because when I saw him, the ethereal serenade began to ring in my ears...
I feel a little moved. Such a gentle and excellent man is in his prime, his parents and lover must be very sad.
When I left, I paid attention to his name again.
Andrew. Wilson, 32 years old.
very familiar
really familiar.
But I can't remember, maybe I've seen him somewhere
I put the poppies in my hand on his cross.
Good night, Andrew. Wilson.