Stories

“Tell me a story.”

During our freshman year in college, we’d often find ourselves lying down on his bedroom floor, listening to his mix tapes. I’d ask him to tell me stories of his childhood, of his life before me, of random things that happened to him that day. Since then, he’s been telling me stories. At some point over the years, he would tell me that I know all his stories already, that I’ve heard them all before, but I don’t care. He’s the best storyteller I know. It feels the same, and his voice soothes me all the same. I would fall asleep wrapped in the sound of his voice, feeling absolutely safe.

That first night when we moved into our tiny condo in Katipunan, when all we had was a bed, a fridge, an electric fan, and an old TV, we were the happiest we’ve ever been in our lives thus far. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. His and mine. We had each other, and a place to call our own. He asked me to dance, and I cried in his arms because the happiness I felt was more than my body knew how to hold. And as we went to sleep, I asked him to tell me a story, as I always do.

Ten years later, we have a 3 year old boy who loves books and stories every bit as much as we do. He runs to his father with books piled up in his arms, asking him to read them. They’ve been reading together ever since Cor was only two weeks old. I read to our son, too, but that has always been something they’ve shared more, and it makes my insides flip watching them together — the man I love and this boy of ours, reminding me that I’ve never really needed more in life than this. And as each day winds down and we settle down in bed, as I’ve said thousands of times before, I hear my son’s little voice asking his father, “Tell me a story.” And everything is all right with my world.