I received a book from a friend today and it made me disproportionately happy.
A few weeks ago, I was discussing Winston Churchill with him because I’d gone down a bit of a rabbit hole reading about his life.
How could one person be so deeply involved in politics, write more than 40 books, win the Nobel Prize in Literature and somehow also find the time to paint hundreds of paintings? I was just fascinated by how some people seem to fit so much more into the same amount of time.
And then today, this book about Churchill’s life arrived. I was exhilarated. And for a while, I couldn’t quite name why.
Of course I wanted the book itself. But I could have bought the same book myself and I don’t think it would have made me nearly as happy.
It was that he remembered.
Something I’d said a few weeks ago, in one of many conversations. Something he could very easily have forgotten.
But he had paid attention. And remembered.
And maybe that’s why being remembered in the smallest details can feel so good.
