Stories

This evening as I sliced the loaf of bread, steaming and still rising, straight from the oven, I was washed with a memory.

"Oh, this smell reminds me of a story," I told Jasper. "Remind me to tell you the story about the bread in Russia while we eat dinner."

Jasper clings to stories like candy. Like perfectly smooth stones found by the river. His eyes enlarged. We had our moment of silence. He didn't forget to remind me. He didn't even touch the hot, buttery slice of bread in front of him. "Tell the story, Mama."

I put on my story telling voice. "Well, when I was young, but not so young. A teenager, a bit older than Jackson, I went on a big adventure. I climbed on an airplane and flew all the way to Russia." Actually at that point it was the Soviet Union, but I didn't go into it.

I proceeded to tell the story about a morning when I went out on my own, at the age of 14, and got in a bread line. I went in to the bread store and bought two loaves of bread. That was it. But the kids were transfixed.

I expected Jasper to pay attention; he'll listen to anything (and everything), but what impressed me was how Josie clung to each word. When Peter interrupted me briefly to ask for the knife or salad dressing or something, she said, "Story, mama. Story." Keep going. She cupped her hands to her chin and the busy two year old sat still for five minutes. A first. When I finished, she said, "'Gain, mama. 'Gain. Story."

Oh, there is no greater joy.