Storyteller

My grandfather is 98 years old.

My father is 70 years old.

My grandfather is stubborn and short tempered and mean, as he’s always been. Slower, skinnier, no longer living at home, declining, but still kicking.

My father is losing his memory.

My father tells stories about his father – all of which sound pretty far out there – grandaddy punched a nun, stole a bike, lost vision in one eye, married a saint – and I collect bits of stories about my father inside them.

My father now needs directions repeated multiple times while driving. Even when we’ve driven the same way four times and will be taking the same turns. He loses words, or uses the wrong one, calls me the wrong daughter’s name and doesn’t notice.

I feel like a hoarder, squirreling away bits of stories about my family. The ones about my grandfather are outrageous – I did mention he punched a nun – but my father is a quieter man. More reserved.

So I hold onto the story of my dad carrying my mom over his shoulder back to their hotel on their honeymoon after she’d had too much to drink. I hold onto the sound of him winding the grandfather clock when I was a child, and how I couldn’t go to sleep until I’d heard it. I hold onto the memory of how the dogs would come running when they heard him get the M&Ms because they knew he’d share.

And I look at my kid, and wonder how I’m going to be able to tell those stories of my father. And what stories my kid will tell of me.