A number of people had already lined the whole length of the bridge when I arrived, but I found a space easily right in the middle. There were two police cars and an ambulance and cars parked where they normally would not have been allowed to. People brought their flags with them, large ones, and all I could manage was a teeny-weeny one that I got from the office a few years back. I thought I should get a larger one for the next "occasion" but on second thought I did not wish for a next one to occur. Cars travelling along the highway below honked their cars as they pass by, to acknowledge us at the bridge for waiting for the procession. Some of them would even wave at us. In return we waved our flags at them.
I had been standing on the snow on the bridge for more than an hour. Sometimes I tried to do a small dance routine just to keep my feet from freezing, even though I made it a point to wear double socks, the top one made of thick wool. As it got darker, the wind blew stronger and I started to shiver. People were nice to each other, an elderly man went to the neary Tim Horton's to get coffee. He offered me the second cup he had and I politely thanked him and explained I don't drink coffee.
We started talking and I found out his friend's son had been one of the casualties in Afghanistan in 2009 and these repatriations had started to have a special place in his life. He would make it a point to leave work and come here to pay tribute. Some people from as far away as Lake Erie came because they had friends or relatives and even sadder, family who had perished in the war, either in Iraq or in Afghanistan.
At some point, the traffic on the westbound lanes below thinned out. That was the sign that the procession was getting closer to where we are on its way to Toronto. It meant all ramps going in to the highway were blocked off to give free and fast access to the procession; for everyone's safety, cars were not allowed to stop on the side of the highway.
There was a long lull in traffic, then one police car passed, followed by another one, then more police cars. Then the hearse. The hearse itself is bound on all sides by the provincial police cars, as well as the limousines carrying the family of the dead soldier.
It is specially heart-rending when the dead soldier happens to be a young man, still a boy mostly, and is an only child, or one who has just a few more days to go through his or her tour of duty. Instead of his family and friends preparing for a big celebration for his return, they are making preparations for his funeral. On one occasion, a soldier was just a few days away and would get married. I specially get very emotional when the dead is a young soldier, in his or her prime, when he or she should be enjoying life. You kind of ask where is the justice in this world. But I feel proud for the soldiers.
I have a young cousin who is right now in Kabul on a tour of duty for the US Army; a nephew, barely in his twenties who is on his way to battle, is with the US Navy; a niece, and another nephew, both of whom I have not yet met and hope to someday, are also in the military service. I have two older cousins and an uncle who are now considered retired veterans. I say a prayer for them every time. I thank God for sparing them every time I hear about a soldier dying in the wars. I know that one of these days, I would have to do something, perhaps join in petitioning the government to treat our soldiers and veterans more decently, with better benefits for them and their families.
I have never experienced war, except what I read in the newspapers. I consider myself lucky and hope that in the future none of us would experience it. But we can only hope. We can only, in the words of John Lennon, imagine.
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