A Keeper

Their marriage was good, their dreams focused.
Their best friends lived barely a wave away.
I can see them now, Dad in trousers, work shirt and a hat; and Mom in a house dress, lawn mower in one hand, and dish-towel in the other.
It was the time for fixing things: a curtain rod, the kitchen radio, screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress.
Things we keep.

It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy.
All that re-fixing, re-heating leftovers, renewing; I wanted just once to be wasteful.
Waste meant affluence.
Throwing things away meant you knew there'd always be more.

But when my mother died, and I was standing in that clear morning light in the warmth of the hospital room, I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't any more.

Sometimes, what we care about most gets all used up and goes away . . . never to return.
So while we have it, it's best we love it . . .
And care for it . . .
And fix it when it's broken . . .
And heal it when it's sick.

This is true:
For marriage . . .
And old cars . . .
And children with bad report cards . . .
Dogs and cats with bad hips . . .
And aging parents . . .
And grandparents.
We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it.
Some things we keep, like a best friend that moved away or a classmate we grew up with.

There are just some things that make life important, like people we know who are special . . . And so, we keep them close!



Good friends are like stars . . . You don't always see them, but you know they are always there!