I could hear the fire crackle. I was so close. Had we been sitting for a while? More than an hour? Was he looking at me? It felt like I was looking in a mirror. There was merely my fireplace and the somber calm of my living room downstairs. When I was looking at him, the words in my head were louder than the fire. I could hear his voice and mine: “why don’t you say something?” I heard his usual answer: “oh, come on what should I say? you wouldn’t trust me anyway. I am not even sure I trust myself. you know that I don’t like talking about myself. you know that I don’t buy all this sharing-crap. are you not listening to me?” My reply was quick and sharper than I had meant it to be: “all I do is listening. most of the time. but I don’t want to know about your dad. or some distant cousin I have never met. and certainly not your colleague from 17 years ago. I want to know about you.” So, I got an angry reply: “so, you don’t like my stories … am I boring you … you find me boring?” My next response was well rehearsed: “no, I don’t. I am just not interested in this woman you were talking about in so much detail. you go off on these tangents. why were you talking about her? what’s the point? I asked you a question and you were talking about her. it’s always about other people. and I was asking you. I really don’t get it. never have; probably never will. I want to get closer to you, know you. I don’t want to hear some story.” His attempt to explain was equally predictable: “I keep telling you it is in these stories. I am in these stories. all I have is stories … … … hold on a second … you don’t like my telling stories … and you want to get to know me. why would you want to do that, anyway? … … … everybody has stories, right? and you want to know about me, right? so. I rest my case. … don’t talk to me. talk to them. I talk about them too much, you say? talk to them. maybe … they talk about me. maybe they don’t. I don’t know. does this even make sense?”
I could hear the fire crackle. I was so close. I guess I must have been nodding off for a little while. Silently. Enough is enough. Just get started. Maybe, I could make a list of these people. I could go through his years. More stories? The same stories? Or will they be different if they tell them? I will just listen. Just listen. I should write them down, so that I can really look at them later. Just get started. But where do I start? Surely not at the beginning! I don’t even know where it all began. The stories of his grandpa, maybe? “Our fathers sinned, and are no more; it is we who have borne their iniquities.” Or do I need to go back farther? And then? A story from each of these people? More than one? How about the years? Did something happen each year? I guess I need to make a list. A list and a calendar? That’s all I can think of? It is not that he is elusive or invisible, but I do not want to make any assumptions. I just want to listen. Listen to stories about him.
Since, I have often looked back to this evening, sitting at the fireplace. I should really get started …