“Always,” I say.

We sit in a small café and the restaurant noise fills the air surrounding us. Something in his tone hints at a good story and I lean in, not wanting a single detail to be lost in the clinks of cups and saucers.

We have been meeting for donuts and coffee more frequently lately and as the years roll on, I notice how we find great solace in telling stories from the past. They bring warmth and comfort and, like old friends, we enjoy sipping strong coffee while we sit with them for a while. I especially love the stories that are unearthed from my father’s side of the family. Each of our visits gifts me with an unknown piece of my history, which I eagerly devour.