On this day every year, a sacred ritual of remembrance is played. On the 11th of November at exactly 11 o'clock, we take off our hats and observe a minute of silence. We hear the lonely bugle call out Last Post, a heartwrenching lament for all those who don't show up in the morning. And then we resume our lives.

I think about my long-deceased grandfather who fought in the first war. My mom just came back from a tour of some of France's old battlefields, places her father had been. He never went back. He said that he'd wasted what should have been his greatest years (18-22) over there. Why would he ever want to go back. She said she regretted not talking to him more about his experiences over there in the mud of France. He never talked about it much. I think I understand why.

Today, I remember the futility of war. The futility of killing for ideals or motherland or hatred. Today I remember why it is that war is itself the greateast crime against humanity, and why we should all be so leary about running headlong into any war, no matter how righteous it may seem at the time. War, we must remember, is fought by living human beings, young men (mostly) who have dreams and hopes that are often wiped out en masse, a single artillery shell wrecking so many mothers' hearts, young lives sacrificed in the name of the dreams and hopes of others.

War is an entirely human affair, and it is worth remembering Today, Tomorrow, Everyday.