Everyone has stories. A person's life is made up of a series of stories, some joyful, some hilarious, some ironic, some tragic. Some of these stories we tell to a group of friends with comedic precision. Others we keep secret, silent, shared only in the dark, between the sheets. It's these stories that make us human, that help us to connect with others. It's through the exchange of stories we know we're not alone.
Sometimes, all we know about other people comes from the stories others tell about them. I never knew my granddad. He died when I was a year old. All I know about Bennion Rhead Cannon comes from stories my family has told over and over. All I have are the stories.
There is a time in my life that I try not to think about. Even though it spanned four years, I avoid thinking about any moment from then because when that time ended, it ended horrifically, painfully. Now when I think back to that time, it brings a terrible mixture of sorrow and happiness.
But lately, I've been thinking about moments, of stories from that time that weren't bad, that were actually quite lovely. Like when I spent the night with Josh and we took shots of rum out of wine glasses. Or when Sean and I would go shooting together. Or when I spent Easter weekend with Sage's family. Or when Brian and I stayed up all night talking about philosophy. Or watching Pan's Labyrinth with Gus. Or any memory with Gus. Those were all wonderful times. Those are all wonderful stories.
The span of those four years is itself one giant story, one with a tragic ending. But individual chapters or even small paragraphs are good stories, wonderful stories, stories worth remembering.
I can't let the overall bad ending make me forget the good stories in between.
Love you.
Mean it.
No comments:
Post a Comment