Stephen Lavezzo had a problem. His father had a habit that really aggravated him. He spent years trying to cope with it, until he came to one, unavoidably vital realization.
My father tells stories. Not the kind of stories that necessarily have a point, just the uncomplicated stories of an uncomplicated man.
“The lights in the tunnel weren’t so good, and your mother and I couldn’t see nothing…”
I’ve listened to my father’s stories all of my life, and heard his voice -- a strong, soothing, warm, and confortable sort of voice-speaking words that were sometimes hard to understand because he was laughing, or because of the Italian accent he insists he doesn’t have.
There’s never been a way of speeding him up or coaxing him to the end before he was ready,