I cover my mouth with my hand. 

My body quakes with silent laughter. 
My eyes twinkle in amusement. 
My eyebrows rise in happiness. 

When I hear his stories, there's a flower blooming inside me. 
As his voice builds up the story, I sit in anticipation. 
When he cannonballs the climax to me, I grip my hands to my chest. 
He drobs the bomb of the cliffhanger then, I sit in a tramatized motion. 

I beg him to finish, to complete the vivid story. 
He refuses, saying there's always another day. 

I sit back, infuriatred but smiling deep inside. 

There is another day, and that thought gets me going. 
It pushes me to go through another day of suffering and complaining. 
It motivates me to daily procedures of living such a materialistic life. 

This is all because I know, 
at the end of the day I can sit with my Father. 
That I can sit with him and listen to his stories of 
His childhood...
His dreams...
His goals....
His understanding of the world....

That I can sit and listen to my Father, that thought makes my eyes crinkle up with joy.