Eavesdropping

"A long time ago," you start.

I hear you, dearest, as I'm at the stove stirring the veggies in the pan, chopping broccoli, washing dishes.  Your voice comes to me through the soft Reggae music, and I can tell by the silence in the other room that you have captivated them, you have their undivided attention.  From my place as the kitchen counter, I imagine them leaning into your storyteller voice, their brown eyes round, mouths slightly open, pinned to every word.

"And if she looked at someone they would turn to stone."  I pause and tilt my head to hear you, too.  You're storytelling is only missing a camp fire, and flickering shadows.  Do you know how powerful your gift for storytelling is?

"But then, this one guy name Perseus, he loved Andromeda, who was supposed to sacrificed to a sea monster, and he decided he would rescue her..."

I wonder if you notice, at this part of your tale to our children, that it's in some ways our story.  Was my life to be a pointless sacrifice before you rescued me along your hero's journey?  It's our love story embedded in your voice, as our boys lean into you as I always have.

You are a remarkable man, dearest.  Our sons are profoundly blessed by you, and we all gather around you, listening, reveling, in the wonder you are.