The Stories

The old man watched the sand castles, saturated by the incoming tide, crumble into softened heaps. His grandchildren danced on the beach, running from the waves as they broke on the sand. He closed his notebook, using his pen to hold his place, and took in the scene. His youngest granddaughter came running up to him with a shell in her hand.

“Grandpa! Look what I found!” she said, thrusting it in his face, “Isn’t it beautiful?

“It is,” he answered, “It truly is.”

Her attention immediately shifted from the shell to her grandfather’s notebook.

“Grandpa, what is that?”

“It’s my notebook.”

“What do you do with it?”

“I write stories, notes, and other ideas in it.”

“Why?”

The old man laughed. He’d never thought about why. In fact, he feared that if he stopped and thought about why he did it, he’d see its futility and never pick up the pen again. Smiling and taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts, he looked down at his granddaughter and said, “Because, when I was your age, I’d spend my days staring out the window. I’d imagine myself on far-off adventures or watching fictional dogfights happening in the skies over my schoolyard. To help quiet my mind before I went to sleep each night, I’d craft intricate stories about my friends and family and picture us looking for lost pirate gold or racing cars through the countryside.”

“Oh,” she said, “But why do you write them down?”

“Well, I suppose it’s selfish. I hope other people would like to read and enjoy these stories. Maybe it’ll inspire them to write stories of their own,” he paused and collected his thoughts again. “But perhaps more than anything, it’s a way to make these dreams tangible. To make them real. You see, someday, I’m going to forget what it felt like to watch you and your siblings play on the beach. I’ll forget what it’s like to have the salt water dry in crystals on my arm. And, I’ll forget this moment of us sitting here talking. But if I can write down these moments and thoughts and describe them in a way that gives them life, well, they live forever.”

“Have you ever written about me?”

“Of course,” he said, tucking a long strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re in every one of my stories. You might be a tree or a cloud. Maybe you’ll be a thought or a word. And sometimes, you’re front and center. You may not look like yourself, but you’re always there.”

The girl looked back at her grandfather’s notebook. “Can I write a story in your notebook?”

“Absolutely. I’d love it,” he said, opening the book to a blank page.

“What should I write about?” she asked.

Handing his granddaughter his pen, he said, “Anything you want.”