Part of my Creative Non-Fiction Writing Assignment
The End of the Story
My dad was talking about something which I had insistently forgotten about the moment he began. He has the habit of giving too much detail, taking the scenic route of a conversation that should have only taken only a few minutes but stretched effortlessly into half an hour. I have learned that the only part to pay attention to is the last few minutes which is where his true point lies. What began as a conversation about remodeling the house had veered into how old Bill Cosby was. I was only pulled in to the conversation again as he reminisced about listening to the radio as a child. When he talked about his past, his usual stern loud voice quieted to a whisper with a low hum behind every word. Instantly, I am taken back to when I was six years old in my bed, underneath my Little Mermaid covers. He is leaning on the side of the bed with a childrens book. He reads to me softly, his voice emitting a soothing rumble that lulls me to sleep. The last part of the story is always forgotten, replaced by a dull murmur that evaporates into silence. And with a loud clearing of his voice, I am back at the dining room table continuing on the scenic route, awaiting its final destination.
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