The Baynhams

Today is ANZAC day here in Australia. A day to remember the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps who fought to keep our countries free, particularly during World War I.

All around the country people march through their local towns wearing sprigs of Rosemary and give pride of place to the elderly soldiers that wear their medals and the medals of their fathers and grandfathers with pride.

Today I was working in the hospital. I started at 6am. It was silent outside and most of the patients were still sleeping in the dark ward when I went inside. I was told to help one of the patients rise early and get him showered and dressed for an early breakfast. He was being collected by his wife at 7am so he could participate in his local march. His clothes were all pressed and hung by his wife the night before. Creased trousers, starched shirt, socks rolled and sitting inside highly polished shoes. I took the final item out of his wardrobe. His suit jacket, heavy with the weight of lines of medals. He asked me to lay it flat on his bed while he ate. I asked him about the medals, he told me that some were his own, some from his father and some his grandfather.

As I touched them I felt goose-bumps. These little pieces of fading ribbon and polished metal represented lives lost, blood shed, real sacrifices made by real men. Sons, husbands, fathers. I asked him could I take a photo of the jacket to show my children, to show my friends here. He stood tall and smiled. He said he wanted people to remember, to remember those lost, to remember those who gave so much so that I could have freedom. He was happy for me to share this image...