What would you do if I told you I am in awe of how big the world is, and by how snugly it fits into the palm of my hand? Would you laugh and call me cocky? Or sip your drink and remember.
It feels as if someone should write it all down – so that when the gods turn their eyes back to us, they know someone has been paying attention in their absence.
A good friend once told me that the essence of life was stories. I laughed.
But only because it was so obvious, had been so since the day I was conceived, and sounded so absurd finally being spoken.
From my father’s stories of his childhood and college years to my own fawn-like attempts to walk and tell.
The stories are a currency, and sharing them an investment.
They are memories and sharing them is teaching.
They are history, and remembering them is sanity.
There is always time for one last story.