Diane’s mother has gone on. She was not wealthy. All she owned was a 10.6 cubic foot chest freezer, which she had cared for meticulously. A few weeks after her mother’s passing, Diane was cleaning the freezer and found, carefully tucked inside a collection of freezer bags, a collection of short stories written by her mother.
About her daughter.
Diane takes those stories to bed with her every night. She reads them every night and every night, for just a little while, she has her mom back.
Mary Ruth was handed a telephone and told she could call her father and tell him anything she wanted him to know.
“Hi, Dad. I want you to know that I still remember all those rainy, thundery nights you and Mom let me sleep in your bed. I remember curling up into your arms and feeling like all the thunder in the world could never hurt me. I remember all the times growing up when things didn’t go right in my life, you were always there to hold me in your arms and make me feel like the world couldn’t hurt me anymore. I want you to know that, Dad. I miss you. I love you. Bye, bye.”
Mary Ruth’s father had passed away in an assisted living home a year ago.
Toby grew tomatoes in his backyard. Lots of them. More than one man could ever eat. But he didn’t grow them for just one man.
Every year, when he picked those tomatoes, he bagged them and, in the early, early hours of the day when no one was stirring, Toby was stirring, walking door-to-door, leaving a bag of tomatoes on doorstep after doorstep around his neighborhood. The morning after Toby died, his son stepped onto his father’s front porch and there, on that porch, were dozens of tomatoes – one from each person, each family that had ever woken up to a bag of Toby’s tomatoes.
You can leave a house behind. It’ll be sold and the kids will thank you. You can leave a bank account behind. The money will be divided and the kids will thank you. You can leave an insurance policy; stocks, bonds, jewelry, antiques and the kids will thank you.
But if you leave your love behind, they will treasure you.
We don’t say it enough and too many times when we do say it, it’s too late. Tell everyone you love that you love them. Show everyone you love that you love them.
Write them a story.
Give them a call.
Grow them a tomato.
Author at www.oldfriendsendlesslove.com