One Verse
It was October, and I had just settled into the eighth grade. I still remember my homeroom teacher, Mr. Crawford, handing out the blank postcards to us with an expectant look on his face. “These are for the war veterans at Sunnybrook Hospital,” he explained. “You’re each to write a message so that the school can send them over to show our thanks.”
I distinctly recall being at a loss for words, a card sitting untouched on the table in front of me. What do you write when you don’t even know who you’re writing to? What do you say when you’re unsure about what you’re supposed to thank them for?
For Remembrance Day each year, there is a poem recited, without fail, by children and adults alike at our school assembly. It had taken a long time, but my project for that year’s gathering had been to work on a response poem; a literary conversation between the past and present. The approach I had taken was about how little we as children understood, but tried to comprehend, this tradition of “giving thanks” as we went through the motions of the assembly every year.
After some thought, I figured it would be appropriate to include one of those verses from my response on the card. Picking a section that made sense, I quickly scribbled down those four short lines, handed it in, and promptly moved on to the next task on the classroom agenda.
Three weeks later, I found myself in the principal’s office with my homeroom teacher standing beside me. As I quietly stressed about why I was there, what I had done, and how to get out of whatever trouble I was in, the principal wordlessly handed me a folded piece of paper.
It was a letter. And that letter, as unassuming as it seemed, was what changed my outlook on life.
As my eyes travelled down the page, I came across those same four lines I had written, only typed out and quoted in 12 pt Times New Roman. Sent by a Mr. Lloyd G. Queen, his message recounted the tale of his best friend and late comrade, who had sacrificed everything in the name of peace. Mr. Queen’s hope was that we would be lucky enough to never see war and strife in our lifetimes. “We all thought that Winnie’s poem was particularly poignant,” he wrote. Reminiscing about the past, he concluded with how touched he and all the other veterans had been through our brief, but meaningful words.
As I read the letter out loud to the class that afternoon, I could feel my throat constricting. A large part of me had assumed that, lost amongst hundreds of postcards, our messages would not have mattered. They would just be forgotten, as I had forgotten them. And yet, my words — our words — had been found, discovered, and appreciated. Suddenly, my four short lines had taken on a life of their own, and represented more than I had ever intended. It was funny how it had taken someone else pointing that out for me to actually realize it.
That experience taught me about empathy. It had shown me, first-hand, just how meaningful the smallest of gestures can become; how the tiniest of actions can grow to touch so many. Sometimes, we don’t even realize just how insightful or valuable our own thoughts and actions can be for the people around us. We learn and grow thanks to others.
As I become older and accrue more life experience, I realize that it is these small moments that will determine the kind of person that I will become. I will never forget those life lessons you taught me, Mr. Queen.
May you rest in peace.
“I breathe the air of freedom
The fruit of sacrifice,
The soldiers paid for with their blood
Knew peace would satisfy.”
– My past self, age 12
