It’s late in the morning, and I’m drinking a cup of black coffee that has turned cold because of how slowly I’ve been drinking it. I’m sitting Indian style on my chair and editing a book on military tanks.
Normally, a weaponry book would get on my nerves. I’d wonder what choices I’d made in my career that got me to the point that I’m editing books so far from my own gushy interests of literature and birds and art.
Today, though, I’m reminded of another morning. I remember riding the bus into Manhattan with my dad, passing the Teaneck Armory, and my dad telling me about his days serving in the Greek army. My dad’s rather private, a trait that runs deep in the family, and I had never really heard him talk about being in the army. Even though it’s required of all Greek males to serve in the Greek army, the detail that my father served in the army never really cliqued in my mind. It made me realize how some details in our lives slip away, forgotten until triggered by a source outside us.
Some stories we share over and over again, til the point our friends roll their eyes from having to hear it again. Other stories we burrow away. Maybe because they’re painful to remember. Or maybe because they just seem insignificant.