For a long time, our war heroes were older.
They’d march on ANZAC Day in dusted-off jackets, with rows of medals clanking. Year after year.
Our veterans would share the same steely gaze. And a rum toddy as the sun came up.
Over time, crowds grew. Finally, as a nation, we got it. Parents and their kids lined the streets. We wanted to show this wonderful bunch what they meant to us.
Their numbers are dwindling, of course. It makes every year, extra special.
I wish Dad had been around to see the change. Things were so different when he was trying to adjust back to normal life, all those years ago. When people didn’t care as much.
He would have been amazed to see the flags waving. And all those mini-medals, worn by sons and daughters. Including his grand-daughters. Girls he never got to meet.
Something else would surprise him. The emergence…
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