Up ahead, a row of braking lights, all turning right. Groups of the warmly-clad wait to cross the street. A priest cuts a clean white figure in the darkness as he walks purposefully towards the park. The sound of bagpipes. “Morning,” I greet a group zipping up their jackets. “Morning,” a young voice chirrups.
The sole sculpted soldier atop the cenotaph is ready and resolute, lit up against the black dawn sky. I shed tears for Grandad, who fought at Passchendaele and the Somme; a man I never had the chance to meet.
The crowd moves forward. Footsteps march on gravel. I see medals on winter jackets, their wearers three abreast. The footsteps stop and there is a long silence, before the priest steps up to the microphone, offering a prayer. He is followed by a kuia dressed in black, a small red poppy glowing on her chest as she recites a karakia.
We hear the story of a young Masterton man, a decorated aircraft pilot in World War 2. We sing and promise: “We will remember them.” Wreaths are laid – many wreaths. A Harvard trailing smoke crosses the sky above us. Throughout it all, the solo soldier stands, the sky behind him now a deep ink blue.
Afterwards, as people laugh and hug, a group of air cadets continues to guard the cenotaph. Their heads are bowed, faces fixed, eyes silent. A strident voice relieves them of their posts. They march away in single file. Away from the lone soldier.
As I leave the park, the sky is light. The kuia chats through a parked car’s open window. I walk past a bed of flowers glowing red, gold and white. They push upwards into the morning light, away from the decaying leaves around them.
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