Stories

There’s a car parked across my driveway, blocking me in.

It’s not actually a car, it’s a van. The pool man, come to check the chlorine levels, and clean the filter. At least I hope he’s come to clean the filter.

It’s grey out and raining. Miserable. A day for staying inside, curled up in a comfy chair reading a book Alison just told you about: Smart ovens for lonely people by Elizabeth Tan. She scanned one of the short stories and I read it and loved it as she knew I would.

When the van is gone, there will be no excuse not to leave for work. I like my work, which isn’t something I’ve been able to say about all the jobs I’ve had. The one before this one was the worst of all, but it led me to this one and it’s one of my favourites. I get to write and interview people and co-design workshops and listen to people and be warm with the heater Kerry, my boss, brought in for me yesterday.

It’s a warm workplace and I am the oldest there. By a long shot. It feels strange to be the oldest, to feel the store of stories welling up inside me every time we sit down for lunch together. I mostly refrain from sharing. Because … you know. Old people and their stories.

I listen to old people and their stories. Stories of removal and disconnection and abuse and am thankful for the warmth of the workplace. It provides a blanket to shield me from the hurt and pain of others’ stories. I write about them, these other stories, in a report for the client, wondering if anything I say might make a difference. Wondering how to say something that will help make a difference.

The van is gone. My path is clear. I’m off to make a difference.