Paps, The Storyteller.

When I was little, I use to sit on my grandfather's patio and listen to his wonderful tales. He would tell stories of our family, his friends, traditions of old, and of superstitions. I was enthralled in the world he created; transported instantly, unaware that I had traveled space and time.

As I grew older, I became interested in not only his tales but how he was able to transport everyone around him to another time. All anyone needed to do was listen. I watched my grandfather's eyes twinkle with delight and with gentle words he explained what I needed and wanted to know.

"Girl, you just need to paint the world as ever good artist paints a picture. Don't tell me a man is nervous, stinky and dirty. Paint it for me. Tell me, Lost to luck and broken by time, Mr.Pearson stood before me. He didn't greet me right away instead he fidgeted with his over coat; small particles floated around him as I watched. The smell of stale cigarette smoke and moist earth clung to him as he finally greeted me."

I had been lost to my grandfather's tale once again. He pulled me from the world with silence and a grin. "Paint the world." he told me, but this time I understood. Words were a storyteller's paintbrush and the listener's imagination the canvass.

My grandfather passed on in September of 2008, but he left a love for animals and stories in my heart. I can only hope, in time, to honor his memory. Be it a tale of my creation or that of another. I hope, one day, someone will think of me as a storyteller.