#PoppyTraditions

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The Colours of Remembrance Shaina Tranquilino November 13, 2024

In the small town of Willow Glen, nestled between rolling hills and fields, November was a month of reflection. Every year, townspeople would gather in the town square to commemorate Remembrance Day. On that day, the square blossomed with poppies of all colours pinned to jackets, scarves, and hats.

Young Lila was new to the traditions. At eight years old, her eyes sparkled with curiosity as she walked hand-in-hand with her grandmother, Eleanor, toward the heart of the square. The cool breeze carried the soft murmur of stories, the faint strains of a bugle, and the scent of pine and cold earth. Lila gazed at the red poppies blooming on the chest of every passerby. But there were also white, purple, and black ones mingling among them.

"Grandma," Lila whispered, tugging on Eleanor’s sleeve, "why do some people wear different poppies?"

Eleanor knelt beside Lila, her eyes kind and wise, shadowed by decades of remembrance. “Each colour has its own story, my dear. But they all speak of sacrifice, hope, and gratitude.”

Lila looked around, her heart swelling with wonder. The red poppies were most common; their bright hue caught the morning sun like flames. Eleanor smiled as she pointed to hers. “The red poppy is for those who served in wars and gave their lives for freedom. It is a way of saying thank you for their courage.”

“But what about the white ones?” Lila asked, noticing a young woman near the memorial with a white poppy pinned to her coat.

“The white poppy,” Eleanor explained, “is worn to remember the hope for peace. It reminds us that even as we honour those who fought, we must strive for a world where no one needs to go to war again. It is a symbol of gratitude for peace itself, and a wish that it spreads far and wide.”

Lila nodded solemnly. Then her eyes lit up as she spotted a man holding a small bouquet of purple poppies. “And the purple ones?” she inquired, tilting her head.

“Ah, the purple poppy,” Eleanor said, her voice softening. “It honours the animals who were part of wars—the horses that carried soldiers, the dogs that sent messages, even the pigeons that flew across enemy lines. They did not have a choice, but they served loyally. The purple poppy reminds us to be grateful for all life and the sacrifices made for us, big or small.”

Lila’s gaze turned to a black poppy worn by an elderly man sitting quietly on a bench, a distant look in his eyes. “What about that one?” she asked.

“The black poppy,” Eleanor said, her voice low and reverent, “is for those whose stories are often forgotten—particularly the soldiers from Africa, the Caribbean, and other regions who fought alongside others but are rarely remembered. It is a tribute to their strength and an acknowledgment of their contributions. We wear it to show gratitude not just for their service, but for reminding us that bravery has no single face or heritage.”

Lila took in the sea of colours around her, each one telling its story in silent gratitude. She looked up at her grandmother, the warmth of understanding dawning in her chest. “We wear them to remember, don’t we?” she said, her small voice strong.

Eleanor smiled, her eyes glistening. “Yes, Lila. We remember, and we give thanks. We wear them so that gratitude, like these poppies, takes root in our hearts and blooms in our actions every day.”

With that, Lila reached into her pocket, where she had hidden a little paper poppy she’d made herself. It was red in the centre, with rings of white, purple, and black layered around it. She pinned it next to her grandmother’s and whispered, “Thank you.”

As the town bell rang and silence fell across the square, Lila stood tall, the poppy on her chest a promise that she would always remember.