Trust in the Listener

Nobody but you wants to hear my sad, sad story.
                                      --my son, age 9

Mama, I can't sleep. Tell me one of your stories, for old time's sake.
                                      --my daughter, age 25, over the phone

Every old story has a sister who says, not again, stop dwelling in the past. Every old story has a brother who turns away, makes a joke, gets everybody laughing. Every old story has ancestors who blush when the words, in spite of themselves, unfurl.

The words always unfurl.

Some people need mantras. Others, blinders. Still others stare straight into the light until all they see are shadowy outlines, bursting stars.

Every old story, exposed in the darkness, begins to take shape within the negative's white frame. Every old story, confronted with silence, learns to sing in the covers, the shower, the car.

Eventually, every old story finds its way home. It knocks hard on the heart, persists through the throat. Every old story, if it is lucky, finds the mother, the father, the child who is ready, willing, who will whisper, Tell that story again.

 And again.

 And again.

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