Books

ANZAC Day Tribute

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Amy buttons her blue shirt and brushes imaginary fluff from her sleeves. Standing tall and proud before the full-length mirror, she systematically checks each minute detail: shirt crisp and ironed to military precision; long blonde hair scraped back into a tidy bun, tied low enough to ensure her hat sat straight; shoes shiny enough to reflect the sun, if it were up. 

Her four-year service medal nestles beside her grandfather's medals. Amy lifts it from the display box and pins it to her chest. Her shoulders slump as the memories flood back. She recalls the pride in Pop's eye as he watched her first medal presentation. All I've done is turn up to work every day to get mine, he'd almost died to get his. 

War has changed so much since then, become impersonal. Technology has built up a distance between us and them. She'll never need to look the enemy in the eye like he did. Amy places her hand on her medal, over her heart, and sends up a silent prayer. Miss you Pop. I'll have a beer for you. Send me some luck with the two up. 

One last glance as she plucks a red poppy from the mirror's edge. Her grandfather's blue-grey eyes peer back at her. Amy smiles wistfully at the memory of him, then stuffs the poppy in her pocket to give to him after the dawn service. 



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