I sink back into the depth of the couch, observing. It is something I inherited from him; the art of speaking only when absolutely necessary, but listening and watching constantly. The three ladies from the town’s historical research group bustle about him, fluffing cushions and offering cold drinks. He smiles but holds up his hand saying, “No, thank you.” He is not accustomed to being the center of attention.

Today, however, he is in the spotlight. A microphone sits to his right on an end table and a video camera stands in the corner on a tripod. He clears his throat nervously and twists the gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand, even though it doesn’t budge. Old things, love and memories and loss, are creatures of habit; even after they are supposed to be long gone they tend to linger. Perhaps it is not really the old things. Most likely it is his broad, thick hands that have sealed the band onto his finger. At least that’s what he claims. But we all know of the hold she had on him.

I watch him intently, following his gray-blue eyes back into the past. He is thinking of her, as always. She would be proud of him today. He is dressed in a crisp light blue and white checkered shirt. His hair is slicked to the right side and his boots are polished. Of course, he still wears the same belt, the one with the twisted silver buckle and faded leather. I frown when I notice the most iconic piece of his wardrobe is absent: his cowboy hat. But today he is not a cowboy. Today he is a storyteller, recounting historical information about the town and its citizens. He begins to speak, his top lip slightly curling over the bottom, and I listen.

“Well I don’t know how much I can remember,” he begins. The camera rolls, the microphone clicks on. “I’ve got so much information up here that I’ve lost most of my hearing.” I chuckle and glance at Dad, who is sitting next to me, and he releases a loud guffaw. It is the first time the both of us have heard him admit to having hearing problems. Usually, the blame falls upon everyone else mumbling when they speak to him. He begins with the history of the town, then follows with its culture and community. He includes comical stories that were passed down to him from his ancestors and life-altering events that shaped his character. The details he remembers are fascinating. The name of his childhood friend’s three-legged dog. “Scarlet,” he snaps his fingers. The ladies’ eyes widen with fascination. One of them leans over and whispers something to Dad, who is acting as an interviewer to prompt Papa and help him stay on topic. I smile at the irony. The ladies are experts at tracing history, not genetics. Long-windedness runs strong in both of the men in this room.

My dad nods his head and turns to Papa. “So, Dad, tell the story about how you and Mom met.” And then everyone holds their breath, wondering if this was a mistake. But I know better. He won’t choke. The ladies fiddle with their skirts and adjust the couch cushions and uncross their right leg from their left only to cross their left leg over their right. They are giving him time to unearth this one. He keeps all of his stories in his back pocket, and most times he has to pull one out and scratch his head and look it over before telling it, just to make certain he gets it correct. After all, he is being recorded. The ladies are still shifting slightly, averting their eyes to show him a moment of respect. I keep my eyes on him.

  There are some stories that warp over time. They are retold by red-nosed men three drinks deep around a corner table in the only bar in town. A word or two is missed. Whiskey does that sometimes. The boy sweeping the splintered floor barely picks it up over the scratch of his broom. He jolts when the table erupts, the men banging their hands and tilting back in their chairs. He doesn’t get the joke but he remembers the story just in case.

There are some stories that become buried. They die with their characters and lie underground, craving resurrection. Someone remembers at night when they are about to fall asleep. That bedtime story. But the teller is gone so they forget. They leave a light on, though. Funny how something that used to help them sleep tight all those years ago is now the shadow that haunts their dreams.

There are some stories that are not appreciated. They are woven from another time and place, a different world where words and thoughts and ideas bubbled throughout the atmosphere. But those stories are out of place here. The Thanksgiving turkey is passed around the table. “You wouldn’t believe how she got the recipe for that dressing,” he says. He takes a bite and smiles sadly. Good, but not quite like hers, even though he followed the instructions word for word. “She was a good cook, you know?” he says to his grandson. The child’s eyes blur from the glare of a phone screen. “She was a good everything.” He takes another bite and swallows.

  The ladies dance in the corner of my eye. I am still watching him. It has only been a few seconds since my dad requested the story. Papa cants one leg over the other and doesn’t miss a beat. No need to check his back pocket. No need to dig it out from six feet under. No need to clear his throat or think for a moment. This is one he knows by heart.

I have heard him tell many stories. I have sat and watched his hands animate things from the past and ideas for the future. I have seen his eyes haze over when he speaks of the hardships. I have grimaced when he knots his face and tries to remember. But never have I seen him like this. I write without looking down. I know there are words littered sideways and outside of the lines, but I don’t care. If I ever tell this story, I want to be damn sure I get it right.

  “We were just a couple of kids. She was eighteen and I was twenty.”

That was only the beginning. I’m sorry. I didn’t write down the rest. I could say that someday I hope to love someone enough to have a story like that, but that would be a lie. Most everyone thinks they have a love story. If at the end of my life, I cannot tell mine in a way that makes a journalist forget to write it down, I’ll know it wasn’t real.  

I sink back into the couch, my pencil hovering over a page on which two sentences are scribbled. And I listen. I know this is one I won’t have to write down to remember.