What are we but our stories?
Contemplating how much I know of my parents: Those stories behind each story told throughout my growth. Every detail, meticulous action, words said, thoughts churned, all emotions felt. What had to be endured, what they had to sacrifice—individually and together, the temptations faced—succumbed to and overcome, and the glory so sweetly tasted—by each one’s own and united.
Oh how I wish to be immersed in the time of my parents and feel everything they went through. But all that I can access are stories: Endless and immortal. Maybe not for others, but definitely worthy heirlooms for me.
A Story Within a Story
That is what I have arrived at after reading James Patterson’s Sam’s Letters to Jennifer. The style of storytelling is unoriginal, yes; but it magnifies the concept of sharing your life stories with your family.
But not just any story.
It delves on those secrets kept to oneself for so long. Secrets that if revealed can only lead to embarrassment and humiliation. But because one cannot bear it anymore, they pour it out. To their grandchildren. Some, to their children. Others, to strangers. And by doing so, they pass on bits of life’s wisdom and lessons learned from experience.
Something to Think About
Definitely, I would like my children to know of the things I go through in my life at present. I would also want them to know of the things that would happen in-between after their birth and when they reach the age of enlightenment. Things that they would surely forget or barely understand at a young age.
The same goes for my grandchildren: You know the adage of “having stories to share with your grandchildren one day?”
Hopefully, that’s what most of my readers feel—the desire to one day, share their personal, intimate stories with their young ones and with their grandchildren.