The other day as I was watching documentaries on the second World War; I was overcome with a sadness - it was not for all those who gave their lives; nor for the many thousands of innocent men, women and children who were killed (though we cannot forget); but it was for my Grandad. More specifically for the fact that I cannot remember all the stories he told me when I was younger about his experiences of being a prisoner of war.
I am pretty sure he wrote down some of his stories, but I don't know what happened to them - are they in our loft or have they been accidentally thrown away, never to be seen again? The thought that the latter may be true fills me with sorrow as it is heart-wrenching to think that his story will be lost. And it reminded me to listen harder, and remember more from whoever wants to share a snippet of their past lives (meaning their childhood - not previous incarnations). I feel it is important that these stories are remembered, especially the stories of those nobodies that create the majority of the world - they are our link to the past and their memories can only live on through us if they are not written down.
Every life is special and deserves remembering, even when it cannot be understood.