We are storytellers, you and I.
By storyteller, you must understand, I do not mean someone who relates falsehoods. I mean someone for whom stories are a part of life. I once read an essay written under the ideology that the only difference between the human brain and the computer is that the human brain knows and can apply the phrase, "that reminds me of a story." I think there is a lot of truth to that.
I believe strongly in the power of stories, be they true or untrue, sad or silly, short or long, personal or public.
I love stories.
So here I am again, back on BYU campus. You are there too, though I think that it is the first and last time I ever saw you there. Different events have brought us to be wandering about the Museum of Art on a Saturday evening, and it is there we meet by happenstance. It has been some time since I last saw you, which fuels my excitement.
meant.to.be.
You had nowhere to be, and neither did I. What else to do but join meanderings? We did, and we talked, and you told me your stories. I will not re-tell any of them here, for they are not mine to relate. I will say that as you talked, it become apparent to me that your stories mean as much to you as mine do to me.
We are kindred spirits that way.
You talked, and in turn, let me talk. Yours were better than mine. All of my stories were so pathetic, I could swear I was liable to cry at intervals. You were calm, but the things you said were affecting: typical adventures, not-so-typical adventures--heartbreak, triumph, joy, incredulation (not a word), trepidation-- all broke over me like the cold wind of the early spring that surrounded us; surrounded us as we went around, and around. I was in awe at the way you were able to size-up life, put it in perspective; it all seemed so... un-graspable to me. It was a lesson in narration. Seeing life for what it was, and not being affected to the point of paralysis. It was looking back to turn anew to the future. My story-telling sessions are usually the beginning of a long chain of excuses as to why I do everything that I do, and why I do not believe I could possibly do better...
Not yours. You own your stories in a way I have never been able to replicate.
Remember the young man with the glove? I think we told him we were siblings. Wicked of us, really.
"I think if I find the woman that fits this glove, I will find my future wife."
Oh, I could have killed you when you made some remark to the tune of "So are you going to stop flirting and just ask her out, already?"
He gave me a look like 'maybe I will', and I gave him a look like, 'maybe you shouldn't.' He didn't; but I often reminisce and enjoy a good laugh at his expense--him and his overly-flirtatious ways.
I had that glove in my pocket for a few weeks after that, and every time I put my hand into the pocket of my overcoat, I would think of you, the narrator. I wish I could remember whatever became of that little souvenir. I might have accidentally "lost it" at a bus stop, on account of the other memory I had connected with it. (haha!)
I should have kept it: that souvenir of our story.
Thank you. Thank you for your courage, and your example, and for your ability to narrate and inspire. You have done more good in my life than you can know, of that I am absolutely certain.
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