I am a child of story,
Born of the tales woven into my life
Each story glitters among the flat colors of my childhood
Golden among gray,
Meticulously woven with love
by the cadence of my grandfather’s voice.
His mind spun
The raw material of his memories,
Into finely-made, sparkling tales that
He masterfully wove into our lives
As my cousins and I looked on, his apprentices in the art of story.
We spent our days sequestered away
Spinning our own tales,
Woven by fumbling hands about
Stolen ruby gum and cheetahs on ice,
In the confines of an attic
Packed with raw story material
of family pictures
peculiar cooking utensils
and antique typewriters
That made our stories glimmer faintly, hidden among the monotony of life.
We didn’t know it then,
But the starry tales,
Discreetly entwined around our lives,
Would reveal themselves as we crafted our own stories
And we would find that the lives we’d found so dull
Shimmered with new found light,
Born of the tales woven into our lives.
We are children of story.