Being Swedish, D-Day to me was never more than a romantic notion of Humphrey Bogarty men, smoking Gauloises and laughing with French girls, in black and white movies. We weren't even in the war, embarrassing as that may be.
So when we went to Normandie a couple of years ago, I didn't expect the impact these historic beaches would have on me. Like tourists do, we visited the many memorials. And at the Canadian cemetary, I suddenly realised I was crying. More surprisingly, so was Jesper.
We went from grave to grave, reading the last words from parents to their sons overseas, the poems, the rest-in-peace's, the forget-me-nots, hearing the voices of lovers, fathers, mothers, sons and daughters left behind.
Since then, June 6 has never been the same to me.
Dear Leo, thanks for joining the war.
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2 comments:
Oh Anna,
France, D-Day, a bit of crying, the power of history etc...
Beautiful post!
And thanks for your ever so kind words!
xx
Aymo, you would have made such a beautiful addition to the French resistance! I can very much see you cutting telephone wires and blowing up bridges. I, of course, would have been the girl with red lipstick, hiding a radio in her father's barn. Ah, those were the days.
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