Our imaginary job jar is filled to the brim with reminders of incidentals in need of completion. I question the "in need of". But hey, the Holidays are coming. They don't just happen, like other dates on the calendar. They are endlessly prepared for. Revered. Worried about. Celebrated. Fussed over. Rightfully so, I think, because then, they are remembered... cherished...
Many, many moons ago, we had a Venezuelan guest at our Christmas table. He was very ill and seeking medical opinions in the States. Our neighbor's daughter was married to his brother, and the entire family was invited to join in our festivities. The language barrier did not hinder our time together. I remember well the warmth, so easily exchanged. Seems like yesterday...
Sometime after he returned to South America, I received a package from his Mom. With the finest of threads, she'd intricately crocheted the most magnificent table runner I'd ever seen. She explained via interpretation that she appreciated our hospitality towards her Son. Anyone would have done the same and I certainly didn't feel deserving of such a special gift. But I understood her expression well. When someone is kind to our children, we are eternally in his or her debt. Universal are the sentiments of motherhood. Her beautiful Son died, shortly after that loving gesture. Her token became my treasure, by which to remember someone who touched our lives, sweetly, bravely, and far too briefly...
The runner adorned our dining room table for decades, till I changed "the look", after which it was tucked away. This morning, in anticipation of dolling up the downstairs half-bath, I searched for adornments. There it was in the linen closet, pristine and waiting. Hey, why not? It's beautiful. It deserves to be enjoyed. The memories it holds are treasures. Clearly not just an anything. Certainly not just a valance.
Remembering Hugo and his Mom. ♥
