ryanmayodaily

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This morning, Sunday 9 November 2025, I laid a wreath on behalf of the Veterans Volunteer Service. The square was still, the air bright and cold, and the silence settled like a hand on the shoulder. I felt the weight of it—duty, love, the names we carry.

I thought about my sister, and the shape of loss that never quite leaves. I thought about McFarlane, a soldier I trained with—funny, sharp, a good man—who lost his fight with PTSD. I said his name quietly and promised not to let his story fade.

In my pocket I carried my great-grandfather’s marching compass. Its brass is dulled now, but when I hold it, it feels alive—as if it still wants to point somewhere steady. His name was Thomas William Mayo. He served with the Queen’s Regiment (Wessex) and was killed on the Somme on 23 April 1917. Today, the compass felt like a bridge across a century: from mud and wire to poppies and polished stone; from his footsteps to mine.

Today’s Dedication

To Thomas William Mayo, who never came home. To Mcfarlane, who carried more than anyone saw. To my sister, whose absence is a daily ache and a lasting light. To the fallen and the missing, and to the families who keep the watch when the parade has passed.

We say it every year because it has to be said, and because it’s true: We will remember them.