Who doesn't enjoy bedtime stories, myths, and tales in the afternoon? I'm fascinated by how princesses meet their princes, how a human can transform into a fruit, or anything else. There is a desire to discover the origins of something, but have you ever questioned who tells these stories? Are they tired of hearing them, and how do they feel about sharing? I can still feel the vibrations from their laughter, their pleased grins, and their voices that sound like lullabies—it feels like magic falling asleep. But what if these are true stories from Grandma and Grandpa's diaries?
I stare up at the sky, memorizing the features of the cloud edges until I spot a sliver of grey. It turns out to be cloud ash as I swirl around. It appears that the sky has its own unique narrative to share. Looking at the dismal clouds, my gut tells me it's going to rain. Then it hits me—all the subtle movements, the intricacies of how it feels. I can envision myself reading them to my grandchildren as bedtime stories.
Baking cakes and cookies with them for our humble victories and birthdays. I knew it would become a cherished memory, or simply a recollection that lingers in the corners of my mind. Sneakily slipping money during every visit with tiny kisses on foreheads eases the weight but also tightens my chest, as if it's being crumpled, making it hard to breathe every time.
A rhythm from an old song that reminds them of how we used to sing and dance to it. Sipping hot soup and inhaling the scent after the rain feels nostalgic. Their hugs are incomparable to the warmth of a blanket. I'm not sure why. But it's the feel of their calloused hands, the way their smiles stretch their wrinkles, their grey-turned-white hair, their scent, and the small and large moles that seem to fill the void within.
And, like a bedtime story, whether someone is already asleep or still listening, I continue to enjoy talking and sharing, as if there's more to recall or something worth remembering that has been forgotten. As long as I retain their memories, I will feel the connection and provide them with a home, a place they have never truly left.
To be physically in contact, only time can tell.
We can measure how long we've been together by the passage of time.
But I'm uncertain when I'll entirely lose you.
Every aspect of you, whether dead or alive, is imprinted in my mind, and the blanket you provided me still warms my bed.
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