We had been on a hike — several miles of steep ascending and descending paths along a creek that sometimes gurgled and sometimes disappeared into the limestone boulder field. We were tired. We all agreed that tomorrow we would be stiff. We were happy to be sitting in comfortable chairs on a restaurant patio with a cool breeze blowing. And we were looking forward to our food arriving.
I had just told a story about when I was very young. A story about how as young kids, we would leave the city behind and climb up the pomegranate terraces and hike on the mountain slopes. It wasn’t a very good story. And there was a dramatic point I never got to make about one of the deep swimming pools up beyond those pomegranates. But Deepa seemed to enjoy it nevertheless.
She leaned back in her chair and looked across the table.
“I like listening to my grandfather,” she said. “He always has stories.”
I wasn’t quite sure how her grandfather figured into this.
“Your grandfather?” I asked.
“…and you. I like how my grandfather and you tell stories.”
And so… there you have it.