Writing is a long process that involves listening, often to things you don’t want to hear. I tell the stories that I know; not verbatim but, rather, a retelling of the ideas. Often these are tales that my parents have imparted and tales that they have invented purely for my amusement.
My father is fond of the wandering fable and that is how I like to tell my stories. It is a voice that always exasperated me for it meandered ever so slowly—“get to the point,” I would often say but, for him, there was no other way to tell a story. And as my mother says, “a story can be told in many ways, and sometimes, the telling is just as important as the story itself.” Hopefully you will agree.
Mostly I like to tell stories that I think I remember. To me, my childhood is always sunny, filled with the hopeful sounds of cicadas and bees, trails of ants making their way to their underground lairs, split figs and shiny loquat seeds discarded in the yard, boys riding rusty BMX bikes out the front of the school during recess and the thin black strap behind a nun’s oak desk.
That’s what I remember.