Today in Remembrance Sunday.
My Great-Grandfather was killed in World War I. He was a stretcher-bearer, having been injured in combat earlier in the war, and died just before Armistice Day. He left a wife and four children.
The husband of one of my best friends (they are the parents of my god-son) is serving with the British Army in Afghanistan.
My middle son is attending a Remembrance Day parade today with his Beaver pack.
I find the World Wars, and the current wars, difficult to think of, difficult to comprehend. I have tears in my eyes when I read the work of war poets, when I think of my little boy trying to understand what he is supposed to be remembering, when I think of my Great-grandmother, and the countless women of her generation made widows and the young men dying abroad.
Today, on Tuesday, every year, we must, we will remember them.