Today, Herself stopped by Cherished Friend's house briefly; she's asked him to look after the ancient and surly cockatiel for a few days while she is visiting the Offspring. (Even though he's up to his eyeballs in lists and moving plans and such, he agreed to do so - just one more demonstration of how he manages to be kind and thoughtful in the midst of his own complicated life.) She brought him a small container of miscellany that she hopes he will find useful as he transitions to his new job and home. She explained what it was, and for just one millisecond, a word or two stuck in her throat. She paused to let the moment pass. It is not yet time to allow sadness into the sunlight.
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The cookbook she lent.
The DVDs she borrowed.
A dishtowel, a storage container.
The little things, through which lives intertwined at the edges, are returned to their original owners. And the realities of the future become more concrete.
We remind ourselves, though, that there is one thing that cannot ever be returned, and we find comfort therein:
Time.
It has been a gift.
And we are grateful.
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