Perhaps it’s the writer in me, or maybe it’s just a romantic inclination, but I have a vision of myself, gray and aged, telling the stories of my life. The stories come alive in the air around me, and those listening to them lean towards the words, like a bed of tulips leaning towards the sun. Their hearts smile, their eyes tear, and their sides ache from laughter.
A friend told me a story recently about a beautiful woman who, lifetimes ago, appeared on the cover of the Saturday Evening Post. But that wasn’t all. She lived a life filled with accomplishments, family, romance, and legacy. Her stories have lingered in my mind for weeks. Her once-in-a-lifetime experiences, contributions to her community, brushes with espionage, serendipitous rediscovery of love, and years of commitment to her family are stamped upon my consciousness. Her stories are worth telling.
I imagine on a day long ago, a day not unlike today, those stories humbly took their root in her life. For every destined chain of events, there had to be a seemingly uneventful morning. Before each unforgettable moment, there must have been an hour long forgotten.
In these days of my life, when days seem quietly busy, nights seem hours too short, and hours seem easily forgettable, I will look hard for the stories of my own life. I will listen with bated breath for my own promises of adventures, opportunities, and great love. I will listen for the music of my memories and capture the colors of my dreams.
And one day long from now, as I close my eyes and conjure up the moving pictures in my mind, even into the years when they begin to slip slowly out of my reach, people will breathe tightly and listen closely.
My stories. My stories will be amazing.
à la prochaine