My father reminded me today that this year marks the centenary of my great-grandfather’s death. He was in the British Indian Army, fought in Burma, and once killed a lion with his sword. He died when my grandfather was two years old and there were no photographs of him, so all my grandfather had of him was a dim memory of a dead body. Then, when he was in his seventies, a photograph emerged from the house of a relative, a fierce bearded turbaned man in uniform, holding a sword. A terrifying father if one goes by that photograph, but certainly better than a corpse as far as my grandfather was concerned.
My nephew was told the story of the lion this morning, and was clearly very confused about how deep time works and the idea of someone dying a hundred years ago clearly boggled his mind. But then he also thought 9/11 happened before Pakistan was made, which made me feel very old indeed.