Stories We Tell Ourselves

For weeks, I have been trying to write about a morning scene in my neighborhood. It began with the birds, like all days here do, a buzzing euphony of trills that break into endless chatter. The audacious swallows, the mournful doves, a murder of crows – they were all players in the tableau. 

Then there were my four main characters - a woman in a long skirt walking two local bichons, Putter and Driver. An older couple on their daily stroll, him in his wheelchair and a well-worn veterans hat and her lovingly by his side (for many years now, I think). And a teenage boy who is running, and has been since the beginning of May. He used to stop every minute or so, walk, and then with some resignation, begin to pace again. Slender, but not necessarily with a traditional runner’s frame, he wears a loose-t and sweat pants, no matter the thick of the Texas heat. He now runs at a steady clip as I watch him disappear into the pavement. He does not stop. 

More recently, I was made aware that on this neighborhood loop is a house that stands much quieter then when I began writing. An elderly man has passed away after being diagnosed with Covid-19. He was old, yes, and sick, yes, and not a person whose passing will make the evening news. But this story came to me from a friend, whom his widow hugged tight and whispered,  

We’ve been together for 47 years. What do I do now?

Sometimes we become so intent on writing our own stories, we forget they’re just that – ours. Mine. I am a window frame from which I sit and try to describe a scene as if it were orchestrated for only me. But to them, I may just be the girl in the window, the woman down the street, or no one at all. To the widow around the corner, I am part of a void that cannot be filled.

In New York, we were like ants upon the rind. We pooled together our hometowns, our hopes and dreams, and we did what New Yorkers had to do to survive – we became inseparable. We told each other our stories because no matter how they began, they all ended the same:

Here we are. We’re New Yorkers now. We’re doing it, but really, we did it.

Now, in West Texas, my story is the exception and not the norm, and the stories I hear are more complicated, provoking and wonderous than I could ever hope to write. Tales of families who have built and folded into the earth many generations over. Hometown heroes, dirt on their boots, growing up to be quarterbacks, actors, and presidents. Love stories that start where you dream they do - at the beginning, over peanut butter crackers and recess. 

It is good, and humbling, to be told these stories, especially now. It is good to be reminded how differently a life unfolds by place, by minute, by hour, and what little we can do to respect those differences. In a small cul-de-sac, a young woman writes over her morning coffee while an older woman weeps.  She does not know me and I cannot comfort her, but I can care. It is a small price for a story – to care.  

I still don’t know the name of the woman in the long skirt who walks the dogs. She could be a mother, a wife. She could know how to change a flat or sing like Dorothy Dandridge. I do not know the couple on the walk. I do not know why he is in a wheelchair or if they are really in love. Perhaps the boy running is already an athlete. Perhaps he is running from something, or towards. I do not know what the birds sing about. 

I just know my story would be less without them.