Where Stories Meet

Where Stories Meet

(“Because you are now part of God’s family, He sent the Spirit of His Son into our hearts; and the Spirit calls out, ‘Abba, Father.’” Galatians 4:6)

I never mind dividing a slice and sharing
the findings around a table of good friends.
We meander and multiply, start stories from the middle
and watch them fly, landing in beginning of someone
else’s tale.

You, we have talked so often, I have categorized your stories;
from grandparents to college shenanigans, young dreams,
younger ambitions, and late revisions of a life ratcheting down
in slow motion.

You tell them so well that, labyrinths winding through time
and recollection, that same tale is garnished depending
on the season. Steak and strawberries in May,
sweet potatoes in October.

What puzzles we are, with histories that ebb,
tides that reveal more at sun and less for rain;
the beginnings, the ends, the outlines the same,
but the telling lets minutes seem like a montage
of 15 passing days.

You, I hope we talk more often, have a hidden pond,
an inner dialogue God knows alone. I know. I
sense the same mystery in me. We are not as free
as we believe, yet are more abundant than we
conceive
on a slow Monday morning.

That hidden place, like the maze through a cavern,
so deep we think it dark, and yet, the most brilliant
of all our human cause and effects.  Sub-original effects
notwithstanding, and all the retail branding we hope will
demand a higher value on today’s market;

That quiet space is what makes
your history so attractive to me,
my story so striking to you,
as if we’ve heard what we have never heard

And dined at the same table from conscious until now.