It's that time again. For one day each year I avoid contact with others because I can't really trust my reactions and I don't want to embarrass them, because, let's face it, a grown man blubbing and bubbling snot is hardly an edifying sight, is it?
I can handle workaday things like personal admin, shopping, cleaning and work stuff, but I have to leave the room if I'm in company and not just during the official silence. The slightest reminder of the selfless acts of the dead and forever-scarred, people who acted with bravery through belief or blind obedience, sets me off and I am incapable of speech. (Some who know me are grateful for that respite.)
Even looking at the cover of the book in this link to Sebastian Faulks' Birdsong is enough and I'm fighting back the flood as I type. I'd like you all to read it. And weep.
Whatever you do to mark the day, whether you care or not, whether you cry or not, my silence begins now.
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