A story is a treasure, a gem to be shared. It unravels layers one never knew she had. Stories are the veins that run through our bodies. They are the rivers that lead us to each other in this ocean we call life. They are the roots that dig deep into the ground intertwined in each other, unseen by many.
Stories keep us alive. They keep us moving yet keep us still. They speak the language of solitude and spontaneity, of adventure and peace.
My father used to tuck me in at night with a story. Sitting at the edge of my bed, he told of ponies and princesses, and animals that talked. His voice was like a mountain, rising and falling and speaking in different accents when that was what a character required.
I don’t remember any particular story he told during this time but I remember feeling safe, like the stories carried me into the night. They were gentle with me and kind.
My father was good at pretending. He was and is the most imaginative person I know. And I love him for that.
He was my personal storyteller, the ambassador and leader of all legends.
Sometimes he would sing to me and it didn’t matter that he was terribly off-key. I don’t think he even noticed or cared. In that moment, all that mattered was that he was there. Tucking me in and letting me listen. What a gift it was to listen.