I’ve never been one to post countless stories about myself. Some people are better at it and have more confidence in sharing every detail of their lives. I never felt comfortable about posting every single thing because 1) I’m pretty boring and 2) I’m sure people don’t care about my mundane activities.
But I used to share everything with my grandma. Many times she would ask me to tell her a story about my adventures with the kiddies at work or what cute thing my cat did. I would try to enact the entire story in a loud clear voice for her. And when she laughed, I did an internal victory dance. I loved making her laugh.
Now that she’s gone, I find myself in scenarios that would’ve been stories for her. Whenever something humorous or frustrating happens, I reflect on it – for a split second – thinking, “When I get home, I have to tell her this!” And then the moment’s gone as reality punches me in the gut and leaves me winded. She’s only been gone for a little over a month, but I have so many stories stacked up that I wish I could tell her – and it’s torture that I can’t. It’s like an invisible library of sealed books that can never be shared. Funny things kids have said. Hectic moments at work. Art accomplishments. All those tiny nuggets of stories that I would save to share with her when I saw her.
So I’ll share them here: all those strange mundane moments that she would love to hear. All those moments that would’ve been a story.