I listen in one chair or another; there is never a bad place to hear a story, soaking everything in. It is amazing that one person could have gone through these trials and tribulations, like something out of a fantasy book. The house is covered with old plates and dishes, but none of them can tell stories like that. These stories are real; they were experienced. All the hard times, crazy experiences, or thrilling acts. They are the stories worth telling and the stories I am told, over and over again. The stories go on, people disperse, until once again it is just us three in the kitchen: Gramma, Grandpa, and I. I look at my Grandparents, wondering how they got to this point, shuffling around the kitchen like friendly roombas. I look to see a kitchen filled with tiny planters, and in them, even tinier cat statues, long stained glass window charms distorting the view outside, and a Christmas tree, still not taken down since winter. It’s almost spring. My Grandfather’s stories seem fake. Not untrue, but unreal. They are stories from another time—antiques, rare, precious, to be held onto as long as possible. Antiques are something left with a family, carried on, and like a good story, told from one person to another.
47
