Prompt: Loss
Our Stories, Ourselves
For decades I’ve been asking my father to write his stories
There have been so many. As a child, I loved the moments of his return. Not only for his presence, but for the gifts of magical moments, and sometimes souvenirs, that returned with him.
Now that he has time to write, physical limitations have taken the fun out of the task. He yearns for the days of speaking into a Dictaphone and having a transcription land on his desk for review. I wonder, sometimes, if his former secretary feels the same. At least she heard the stories first!
I remember waking early, on mornings after his arrival. Creeping into the front room, I looked for any display of treasures, indicating that I had been remembered and that new stories were afoot.
I remember the slide shows from Asia. One, in particular, had the deep tones of an evening in Jakarta, and a small boy poling a sampan between the other craft. I wanted that one for my wall, it was so beautiful!
I remember a slideshow of the French and Belgian countryside, presented to my French club, one night after school. I was in secondary school by then, and it was the first time I fully appreciated my father’s presentation skills, his facility with languages {which I’ve inherited, thank…
