Grandpa’s stories were the best.
Whenever we were sent to dream:
“Protest! Protest! Tell us the rest!
We have to hear it! We must know!
Who went to spirit? Where’d the Witcher go?”
Then he’d sternly say, with a wink and a grin:
“Stories never end, just the telling of them.
Now get yourself to bed and let them come again.”
His heroes and villains weren’t done by half.
They’d get hurt but still love and laugh.
Maybe he was them.
Maybe he lived it.
Danced with the joyful fools.
Broke the Borrowed Rules.
Splashed in the moonbow pools.
Maybe that’s how he knew.