Abba was a great storyteller. That simple truth sat at the centre of so many of our family gatherings, and even now, years later, I can still hear the particular way his voice would shift when he was about to start one of his tales. He had so many stories about his own life and the people around him that sitting with him never felt boring. He really did have something for everyone. A kid who wanted adventure stories, a teenager half-scrolling on their phone, an adult just trying to relax with tea after a long day somehow, he could pull any of us in. Childhood stories, school stories, teachers, neighbours, colleagues. They came out of him easily, like someone who had lived a lot and somehow managed to remember nearly all of it.He knew jokes that fitted almost any occasion. He could drop poetry or old idioms and sayings without it sounding showy. He was the life of every party.

Sometimes he would start singing in different languages, and if the mood hit him just right he might even do a small quiet dance. He travelled a lot, so he collected random facts about places, people, their food, customs, and religions. He knew how to enjoy life. Looking back, what made him special wasn’t only the number of stories he carried. It was how he told them with warmth, with timing, and with this steady curiosity about the world that never seemed to fade. Even the ones we had heard many times before never felt tired. He’d remember some small extra detail or laugh in a different place, and suddenly the whole room was leaning in again.

In our house no one was ever supposed to leave with an empty stomach. My parents loved guests. They loved feeding them. When I was younger it used to annoy me. Extra plates coming out, special dishes appearing, tea being made yet again. I’d think, can’t we just have one quiet evening for once? Why does every visitor have to be treated like royalty? Now I see it differently. It’s actually a blessing when people come over. There’s something almost spiritual in the act of feeding others. It softens ordinary days and leaves memories that last longer than the meal itself. Abba understood this without needing to spell it out. He was usually the one pushing another helping on someone, asking about their family, or starting a story that made the whole table grow quiet and listen.

I can still picture him near the doorway, waving people in to sit, already beginning the next anecdote before they had even properly sat down. Hospitality wasn’t something he put on. It was just how he moved through the world. He used to tell us sweet, funny stories about his elder siblings too. Being the youngest of six meant he had absorbed everything. The jokes, the arguments, the quiet sacrifices, the big personalities. One story he loved was about our Taaya who worked in the merchant navy. He spent months at a time on ships with nothing but water and waves around him. Once, when he was home on leave, he saw the sea on television. He was wiping his face with a towel and, without thinking, he just draped the whole towel over his face, as if the sight of the ocean had taken him straight back to those long months away. Everyone laughed, but there was real tenderness in the laughter.

Sometimes I remember that story when I see airplanes on my days off and someone says, “Oh look, an airplane.” I feel the same kind of pull Taaya must have felt. Still, I actually like the chaos at the airport. I don’t fully know why. The announcements, the rolling suitcases, the tired faces, the sudden hugs when people finally meet. there is something oddly comforting in all that controlled mess. Fluorescent lights, constant low hum of voices, time stretching and shrinking. It feels familiar somehow, like the restlessness of travel has settled into me. All the customer service works I’ve done over the years has taught me patience and a bit of humility.

I’ve become more careful about how I treat people working minimum wage jobs. When I walk into a shop and see one person trying to take orders, prepare everything, and clean the counter at the same time, I keep quiet even if things are slow. So many people are rude to cashiers and baristas. They have no idea how early that person woke up, how many buses they changed, how long their shift is, how sick or exhausted they might be while still forcing a smile. Most of them are doing two or three jobs just to get by. That’s normal now. We should be more appreciative and respectful. Their quiet endurance keeps so much of daily life moving. I’ve started noticing the way tiredness sits in someone’s shoulders, the tiny pause before they manage another polite reply, and I feel ashamed of the times I used to rush past without thinking. A little kindness costs almost nothing, yet it can steady someone who is barely holding on.

I think about Abba’s stories more often these days. The world keeps speeding up, and there is something almost radical about slowing down enough to really listen. To a family member, to the stranger behind the counter, to the minute details of someone else’s day. Abba never rushed a story. He let the pauses sit. He let the laughter settle. He made space for whoever was listening. That kind of attention feels rare now, but it’s exactly what makes ordinary interactions feel human again. We live surrounded by noise and notifications and the constant pressure to get to the next thing. Against that, simply giving someone your full attention feels almost rebellious.

It says this moment and this person matter more than whatever is waiting on the list. Sometimes when I’m stuck in a long airport queue or waiting for a coffee that takes forever, I remember Taaya and the towel over his face. We all carry our own versions of that moment.

The places we’ve been, the work that has shaped us, the tiredness we try to hide behind polite smiles. The difference is whether the people around us notice, or whether they just demand faster service and move on. I think of those nights when Abba would still be telling stories long after the plates were cleared and the house had grown quiet. He never seemed eager to finish. He understood the real gift wasn’t the ending of the story but the shared space it created while it lasted. Abba taught us, without ever saying it straight out, that a good story is never only about the person telling it. It’s about the connection it makes.

The same is true of ordinary kindness. A patient word, a real thank you, the decision not to snap when someone is clearly stretched thin. These small choices travel further than we realise. They are the modern version of making sure no one leaves the house hungry. I’ve started noticing how often those small gestures come back to me in unexpected ways. A stranger holding a door a second longer, a quiet nod from someone who has clearly had a hard day. The world feels a little less harsh when you remember that almost everyone is carrying something you can’t see.
I still miss the way Abba could fill a room. I miss the unexpected poems, the sudden songs, the odd facts about faraway places that made the world feel both bigger and closer at the same time. But I carry pieces of him with me every time I choose patience over irritation, every time I remember that the person serving me has a life as full and complicated as my own. In that sense his storytelling never really ended. It just found new listeners, one quiet interaction at a time.

There are evenings when I catch myself speaking a little more slowly, letting a pause hang, and I realise I’m echoing him without meaning to. His voice has become part of how I move through ordinary days, and maybe that is the real abundance he left us — not only the stories themselves, but the understanding that life is richer when we make space for other people’s stories too. The meals we share, the patience we offer, the willingness to listen without rushing to the next demand. These are the quiet things that last longer than any single tale. Abba’s gift was never only the words he spoke. It was the way he taught us to stay present long enough for those words, and for the people around us, to matter.