Son of a storyteller
I think technically they’re laughing at me, but I’m trying to make their laughter harder.
I probably should have left – the last guest and it’s dark and the coffee’s been gone for an hour. I shifted in my chair. My family’s always had trouble leaving, enjoying people and laughter too much to remember not to overstay.
Tell us a story, she said, short blonde 9-year-old hair falling to her eyes. Yeah, said her brother.
I settle back. Grin. Wink. And started an old one about a riding lawn mower and then went into the runaway horses. Now the father’s bending over with slapping-the-couch-laughter and the kids have big eyes in their little faces with grins they can’t control and the daughter’s telling me to “tell my mom the story about the horses.”