Dec. 20: What you mean to me

In December of 2008, I went to New York City. The reason I went was to watch the Calgary Flames play the New York Rangers. This was an era before smartphones so all the information I needed was on a folded up piece of paper in my back pocket. That paper had the contact information of a friend in New York City, the address of the hotel where I was staying, the departure time of the bus that would take me back to Canada, and all sorts of other data.

As I wolfed down one of New York City's famous street corner hot dogs, I glanced at that paper and realized how important it was to me. If it got carried away by a gust of wind, I'd have been as lost as Theseus in the labyrinth. So yeah, that paper meant a lot to me.

But two days later, when I was safely back in Ontario, it was useless. I threw it away.

-

Life is a sad dance. We waltz in and out of each other's lives. On Monday, we're one of the most important people in the world. By Wednesday, we're only semi-important. By Friday, we won't even make the top ten list. Heck, we might not even make the top fifty.

There was a kid in Kingston who, whenever I visited, was so excited that he would run out to the parking lot to greet me. He stayed close during my entire time there. But time does what it always does - it marches on and - in the words of Peter, Paul, and Mary - "A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys.

Painted wings and giant's rings make way for other toys. One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more. And Puff, that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roar."

 

That kid is in his mid 20s now. He lives on his own. I usually call him on his birthday. He never calls me on mine. 

 

Such is life.

 

-

 

I am no different. 

 

When she was alive and when we were kids, grandma was so heartbroken that we didn't write to her very often. One year, for Christmas, she sent me a stationary set. The hint was lost of me. I thought she just wanted me to learn calligraphy. 

 

She was a sweet old woman and, when she visited, we adored her because she was so kind and always bestowed gifts on us. She deserved better. 

 

-

 

I have a kid now.

 

When he was just over a year old, he was delighted when I visited him over my lunch hour. "Dada," he would say over and over again. Then he would come to me and hug me and, in his toddler way, urge me to take him outside so we could go on yet another adventure.

 

He is nearly eight now. He is no longer ecstatic when I show up. He will never be that happy to see me again.

 

As Paul Simon says: "Preserve your memories. They're all that's left you."