I remember, but I wish I could remember more.
I remember Dad getting Dina and me out of bed, carrying her and half-dragging me to the living room.
I remember the TV, and the grainy pictures thereon. White-suited men bouncing around a white rock-strewn plain. An oddly-stiff flag neither waving nor sagging nor flapping. I remember Mom giggling about something or other, almost uncontrollably.
When they showed that flag, that was the first time I ever saw my dad cry. And it was the last time, for almost nineteen years. Until my mom's funeral.
I wish I could remember more about that night, forty years ago.
But I was just a little kid, after all.