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What I noticed the most when my husband and I visited the World War I battlefields surrounding Ypres, Belgium — apart from the miles and miles of headstones — was the silence. A thick hush hung over the entire area, as if to remind visitors of all the unspoken stories buried there — stories of soldiers and civilians who never had the chance to speak them.

I thought, too, of the poem "In Flanders Fields," written by John McCrae, a Canadian doctor who witnessed the fighting and died of pneumonia in France before the war's end. He penned it shortly after a close friend and fellow Canadian, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed in the Second Battle of Ypres.

"In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields."

I felt a similar quiet reverence in the air the day my extended family gathered to bury an uncle in East Lawn Memorial Hills — the cemetery where my friends and I used to wander before the foothills above Provo were filled with homes. A veteran of the Second World War, this uncle elected to have a military burial. A lone soldier stood apart from us and played "Taps," after which we watched in silence as two soldiers removed the American flag from my uncle's casket, folded it with military precision and presented it to his oldest son — all this beneath a dazzling May sky.

I wondered then: How many of his stories did my uncle tell?

In the past decade there has been a concerted effort to collect the experiences of World War II veterans. One such true story is the inspiration behind author/illustrator Patricia Polacco's terrific new picture book, "Tucky Jo and Little Heart." Told in the voice of an actual veteran named Johnnie Wallen who served in the Pacific theater, the story celebrates the deep kindness of which human beings are capable, even in the dehumanizing atmosphere of war.

As hard as their stories can be to hear, I'm grateful that so many of these veterans — as well as the veterans from other of our country's subsequent wars — are willing to bear witness.

And yet not every veteran wishes to relate what he or she has experienced. Many of my friends whose fathers served in World War II have told me that those men never spoke of their experiences. Ever. Their memories were too raw, too painful. They cut too close to the bone. I myself know people who fought in the jungles of Vietnam and in the mountains and deserts of the Middle East who choose not to share their stories either. It is their choice to make, and I respect that decision.

But this Veterans Day on Wednesday, Nov. 11, in addition to recognizing those who have served our country, I also want to honor all the lives unfinished.

And all the stories left unsaid.

Ann Cannon can be reached at acannon@sltrib.com or facebook.com/anncannontrib.