Littered with memories

A sea of veterans matching on to the sound of the band, on to the swirl of the pipes, on to a distant memory of fallen comrades. The bands play the well worn soldiers songs who respond with one voice singing the songs they sang when moving down the road leading to the trenches. A deep bond built into and between them, born of fear and tribulation a fellowship which can not be broken, an alliance of the living for the dead.
 It's a funny thing the past. It holds our memories of the actual life we lived, along with memories and aspirations of the life we wished to have lived. The people we knew and thought we knew the dreams of attainment the attachment and the dis entanglement of relationships, these are all the province of the mature citizen and whilst today the spotlight is on the fighting men and latterly women, their memories dismembered by the acute strain put on these people, people who were asked to risk their lives, but who came from a class of people, the amateur, out of character since these men were largely conscripted from civilian life.
 The act of living is the act of dying and between these two posts our memories are the fabric of who we are. They reflect our passage and, if we are sufficiently at ease with them they amount to who we are and the standards we hold, therefore memories are important.
Maturity has, of right, plenty to draw on. Youth, still girding its loins, will fight the battles and gain the experience which will, in the end, identify that person. 

One of the reasons we ask our youth to wait and harness its time and energy is that 'improvisation' is not enough to run anything.