I write this November 11, but didn’t share it that day because I didn’t want to take away from what our veterans fought for. I just find it hard to believe they imagined this.

The poem says, poppies grow between the graves of fallen soldiers.

Countless dead, fallen in a war to end all wars.
Having seen the monuments dedicated to those who sacrificed their lives, I wonder what it would be like, to see a monument to the dead of this virus. A monument to the survivors, many of whom still suffer.

Because we fight this war from our homes, our trenches – literally our kitchens, workplaces and schools – we do not see the toll.

It’s a number too big to fathom without a sense of scale.

So we need a monument. A poppy or sea of crucifixes, or a wall with all the names written on it. A candle or flame for every man woman and child taken because we would not wear a mask. Would that flame be brighter than the forest fires ravaging the earth?

We need to feel the discomfort of those numbers. Let it sit with us, let it truly register. We need to feel how small we truly are, not distract ourselves with handheld devices creating division and spreading lies. We need to take a moment, to truly pause and feel the repercussions of our choices. As much as we try to pass the blame, they remain our choices.

For we are breaking faith with the dead and the survivors, and those working to help stop the deadly wave simply because it does not register, because we are unwilling to sit with the discomfort of our own selfish desires.