Headlights

There's a critical piece about this story that keeps getting told different ways. Actually, it gets told two different ways by the same person.  If one version is true, then all is good.  If the other version is true, then there are questions that need to be asked, the answers to which may alter the very foundation of my work.

I don't know if this person's memory is the problem or their conscience.

Sometimes I think this particular part of the story doesn't matter at all.  I watch the video of my grandfather and I see his courage.  I pause the video and I can see the passion in his eyes.  He put it all on the line.  That's what matters.

One of the hard truths I'm learning is that "truth", in and of itself, is elusive. Memory is even worse.  Trying to nail down a story that's 47 years old is like trying to grab the air.  If these events were outside of me this would be so much easier. But every theory and every twist matters to me.  I get elated.  I feel like the wind got knocked out of me.  I jump for joy and call all my friends.  I cry.

There's something in me, the writer in me, the researcher in me that wants to either get to the bottom of all the questions or at least present each of them so that the reader can decide for themselves what is most likely true.

Then there's the granddaughter in me.  The starry-eyed girl who thought she could commune with a ghost is still naively willing to believe in magic.  She wants to conveniently shut her eyes to anything that doesn't make her feel warm and gooey inside.

There is still so much work to be done.  Some of it excites me.  Some of it makes me feel like a deer staring at headlights.