My birthday falls on Pearl Harbor day (December 7th). I was born 40 years after the attack.

That was long enough to make a joke about the flags being at half mast because I was born. Time heels everything. So does comedy.

But it was also close enough that I could grow up interested in the attack itself, and even have the chance to meet a few people who were there. Pretty crazy.

Especially as the attack I did live through, granted, from about 100 miles northeast, turns 25.

The stories change over time because our relationships with the events change over time.

They’re shared experiences, and deeply personal experiences, and abstract stuff future generations hear about but can’t quite contextualize until something happens in their lives.

I wasn’t born yet on Pearl Harbor Day but I have feelings about it. I was alive but not in New York City on 9/11 but I have feelings about it. I see the stories. I hold my own reflections.

These are the big stories, and we all share their impossible size, touching everything - yet without any conclusive or perfect words or explanations. No matter our place in space and time. They’re there and they’re shared and life exists around them.

Points in time. With lots of stories. And when it comes to the stories, there’s only more and nothing less.

A few more thoughts as I figure out what I even say on a day like this one:

I’m glad I’m getting older.

I’m amazed at the range of experiences life holds.

It might be a good night to open up a bottle of wine and find something to smile about, because - for the most part, life is pretty grand.