Empty Boots

Over the summer, I began painting a pair of old boots — empty, scuffed, and softened with time — surrounded by a sea of poppies swaying gently in the wind.

At first, it was just a way to release my sadness and frustration with the world — to pour it out through colour and form. But as time passed and the tones deepened, something shifted. I found myself imagining the boots were my grandfather’s — a man I never met, but somehow carry within me.

I often think about him.
As I painted, the act became a quiet conversation with his memory. I wondered what kind of man he was — the strength it took to leave his family to fight for something greater than himself, the courage to face the unknown, the longing to come home and step out of those heavy boots into a life of peace.

I never got the chance to know him, but I like to think I would have adored him. He even looks a bit like me — the same nose, the same quirky smile. I imagine his laugh, his hands, the stories he might have told.

As the painting came to life, I realized how symbolic those empty boots had become — not just for the soldiers who never came home, but for all the spaces left behind. The unspoken stories. The missing hugs. The families who learned to live around the ache of absence.

My grandmother did.
She raised five children without him, carrying both grief and grace in equal measure. I think about the strength it took to keep going — to fill the silence he left with love, routine, and resilience.

We often say Lest we forget — but remembering can’t just be a single day on the calendar. It has to live in all of us.
Because if we stop telling these stories of loved ones lost too soon, if we stop paying attention, history has a terrible way of repeating itself.

And lately, it feels like it’s trying to.
When I look at the world — the hatred resurfacing, the cruelty justified, the silence of those who should speak — I can’t help but think: Have we learned nothing?

The boots in my painting aren’t just a memorial.
They’re a warning.
A quiet plea.
A reminder that peace is fragile — that freedom was earned through unimaginable loss, and that it can just as easily be lost again if we don’t collectively look inside our hearts and call for it to stop.

So this Remembrance Day, I hope we do more than bow our heads for a moment of silence.
I hope we truly remember.
I hope we speak up when cruelty tries to disguise itself as justice.
I hope we teach our children what the poppies mean — not just in history books, but in their hearts.

For my grandfather, for those who walked before us, for those we’ve lost far too soon — may their stories continue through us.
And may we never grow too distracted, too comfortable, or too afraid to stand up for what is right.

Lest we forget. Truly.

-Christine Armstrong