There are not many absolutes in this world. In fact, there are really only three. We are born. We live our lives.
And then, we die.
Oh, wait. There’s one more.
If you are the last woman to leave a pot luck dinner, you always bring the orphaned crock pots and spoons home with you to wash and reunite with their rightful owners. That’s what women do. We can’t help ourselves. We’d want someone else to do it for us.
That’s what I am doing this week. Eventually, my counters will be cleared of the items that don’t belong in my drawers and cupboards. As a class, we’ll figure it out together. We always have.
The other thing I’m doing this week is looking through all the photos that were taken during our fortieth class reunion last weekend at the golf course. My smile muscles are sore as I scroll through them on our Facebook group page. Each face holds memories of when we were young. Who we were then. By your fortieth, that is all that matters when you gather. Those memories. Not what you “do” for a living, or where you live, or who you voted for. Thank goodness.
Those memories are more precious than gold.
For the reunion, we made a list of the ones we’ve lost. We placed flowers and candles. This is risky. First, you always worry that you’ve missed someone. And then you joke that you hope nobody on this list shows up and says, “what am I doing on this list?” That would be awkward, to say the least.
Well, here’s some good news. He didn’t show up, but Fred’s not dead.
Crock pots, after all, are easily replaced.
Old friends? Not so much.