My father is a purple heart veteran of the Viet Nam war. When I was younger, I’d sometimes ask him to tell me stories about the time he spent there, and about the friends he made – and lost.
He never wanted to tell me.
So many of those stories remain locked away, and I suspect they’ll go with him when breathes his last. I respect his privacy, because I know that sometimes, the stories locked inside us demand a terrible price when you revisit them, just as they demand a price for keeping them safely locked away.
Today, I remember the stories he did share, but I also remember the stories he never told.