Every year on November 11, Canadians across the country cluster in the cold around cenotaphs of concrete and stone to commemorate our war dead. In a society almost entirely devoid of tradition and ritual, Remembrance Day ceremonies wield particular power: the tread of boots on asphalt in the silence as the military parade passes by; the shrill of the bagpipes; God Save the Queen (or, last year for the first time since 1951, God Save the King); the laying of the wreaths; the reading of John McCrae’s In Flanders Fields; and the moment of silence at 11 AM followed by the Last Post, the notes echoing into the reverie. It is the last Canadian ceremony of its kind.
