How to catch a monkey.
Monkeys love cashew nuts.
Place one in a deep jar with a narrow neck.
The monkey sees it, wants it, and slides his empty hand inside.
But once he grabs the nut, he can’t pull his clenched fist back out.
He won’t let go.
And that’s how you catch a monkey.
My father told me that story.
He was an Englishman who grew up in South India.
My bedtime stories were snake charmers and tigers and elephants.
Dusty roads. Heat. Markets. Mischief.
I can still hear his voice when I think about them.
I would love Remy to hear those stories the way I did.
But Dad’s long gone.
And so, mostly, are the stories.
I never recorded them. I meant to. But there was always time.
I can repeat what I remember.
But they won’t be the same.
He lived them.
The pictures in my head were what he saw with his own eyes.
My retelling will always be something softer around the edges.
Stories don’t get lost because they’re unimportant.
They get lost because no one thinks to tell them while they still can.
I wish I’d asked him to tell them again.