Captain Michael: Where the hell did the day go?
Maybe that’s an appropriate question for this week.
Because eventually you start asking
Where the hell did the day go?
Maybe that’s an appropriate question for this week.
Because eventually you start asking the same thing about years.
They went somewhere.
And tonight I’ve been thinking about where some of them went.
Into people.
There are pieces of people I’ve known still walking around inside me.
A phrase I use because someone said it to me years ago.
A standard I hold because someone once expected it from me.
A way of solving a problem because somebody showed me how.
A little more courage because somebody believed I could handle something before I believed it myself.
Even a joke I’ve told so many times I’ve almost forgotten who I stole it from.
They’re still here.
And that means—whether we think about it or not—pieces of us are probably out there too.
In our children.
Our friends.
People we’ve worked beside.
Someone we taught.
Someone we helped.
Maybe even someone we met briefly and never thought about again.
We don’t get to decide which parts they’ll carry.
That’s probably worth remembering.
Because someday our possessions will belong to somebody else.
Our accomplishments will be old news.
Our stories may even get the details wrong.
But somewhere, somebody may still be doing something a certain way simply because that’s how we showed them.
Maybe that’s one of the quietest forms of immortality there is.
A little of us remains in one another.
Captain Michael: Where the hell did the day go? Maybe that’s an appropriate question for this week. Because eventually you start asking t
Where the hell did the day go? Maybe that’s an appropriate question for this week. Because eventually you start asking the same thing about years. They went somewhere. And tonight I’ve been thinking about where some of them went. Into people. There are pieces of people I’ve known still walking around inside me. A phrase I use because someone said it to me years ago. A standard I hold because someone once expected it from me. A way of solving a problem because somebody showed me how. A little more courage because somebody believed I could handle something before I believed it myself. Even a joke I’ve told so many times I’ve almost forgotten who I stole it from. They’re still here. And that means—whether we think about it or not—pieces of us are probably out there too. In our children. Our friends. People we’ve worked beside. Someone we taught. Someone we helped. Maybe even someone we met briefly and never thought about again. We don’t get to decide which parts they’ll carry. That’s probably worth remembering. Because someday our possessions will belong to somebody else. Our accomplishments will be old news. Our stories may even get the details wrong. But somewhere, somebody may still be doing something a certain way simply because that’s how we showed them. Maybe that’s one of the quietest forms of immortality there is. A little of us remains in one another.
Where the hell did the day go? Maybe that’s an appropriate question for this week. Because eventually you start asking the same thing about years. They went somewhere. And tonight I’ve been thinking about where some of them went. Into people. There are pieces of people I’ve known still walking around inside me. A phrase I use because someone said it to me years ago. A standard I hold because someone once expected it from me. A way of solving a problem because somebody showed me how. A little more courage because somebody believed I could handle something before I believed it myself. Even a joke I’ve told so many times I’ve almost forgotten who I stole it from. They’re still here. And that means—whether we think about it or not—pieces of us are probably out there too. In our children. Our friends. People we’ve worked beside. Someone we taught. Someone we helped. Maybe even someone we met briefly and never thought about again. We don’t get to decide which parts they’ll carry. That’s probably worth remembering. Because someday our possessions will belong to somebody else. Our accomplishments will be old news. Our stories may even get the details wrong. But somewhere, somebody may still be doing something a certain way simply because that’s how we showed them. Maybe that’s one of the quietest forms of immortality there is. A little of us remains in one another.
