Tangible Memories

I had to mail a package.
I went to my little country post office.
I always appreciate that long lines are nonexistent.
I am usually in and out very quickly.

This day, a woman was in front of me.
She was carrying a large box that she wanted to mail.
She lifted the box up on the counter.
The plexiglass made placement of the box a bit awkward.

The young man behind the desk put the large box on the scale.
The questions were asked.
Anything liquid, fragile, perishable…?
She answered, no, and clicked the appropriate button.

Oh, this is not right, the young man said.
An exorbitant amount came up on the screen.
She had already inserted her credit card.
Something was wrong with the scale.

You would think that a mistake like that could be easily remedied.
The postmaster had to be called out of his office.
A credit had to be issued to the woman’s credit card.
First, the source of the problem had to be found.

I’m sorry, the young man said to me.
I actually needed a box to mail my return package.
I inadvertently threw the original box in recycling.
I needed to buy an appropriate sized box; the postmaster helped me find the right one.

After many tries, the credit was issued to the woman.
The box was placed on the scale again.
The same thing happened.
I could tell that she was getting frustrated.

As the young man and the postmaster discussed the problem, she turned to me.
We were on our six-feet-apart circles.
We were wearing our masks.
We still engaged in conversation.

I’m sending some bears to Florida, she explained.
You see my husband died three years ago, she began and her voice trailed off.
It took me a while to go through his things.
I just didn’t want to part with them.

I was touched that she felt comfortable enough to share this with me.
I found someone who makes bears, she continued.
I knew now that teddy bears were in the large box.
Not just any bear, she said, these are memory bears.

Memory bears? I asked.
Yes, I had the bears made out of my husband’s clothes, she explained.
I am sending them to family members, so they can have a piece of him with them.
That is a lovely idea, I said and meant it.

If it’s going to cost this much, she remarked, I don’t think I’m going to be able to do it.
I’m sure they will figure out the problem, I said, wanting so much for that to be true.
The young man behind the counter asked the woman if he could wait on me.
By this time a man came into the post office and was standing on his six-feet-apart circle.

Of course, the woman said, as the postmaster was still trying to figure out the finicky scale.
She stood off to the side.
I looked at her as I left.
Thank your for sharing your story with me; I am sure the bears will be well loved.

She smiled.
I sent a shooting arrow prayer to God.
I prayed that the situation would be remedied.
I prayed that the memory bears would go to their rightful owners.

Surely the righteous will never be shaken; they will be remembered forever. (Psalm 112:6)

I wondered throughout the day, if the large box of memory bears was sent.
I wondered what the family members would think when they opened the box.
I wondered if the woman wrote a letter.
I wondered if the recipients remembered the clothing that was made into a bear.

One day we all will die.
We all will leave a legacy behind.
What will people remember?
That is not a vain question, rather it is an important one.

Will they remember your smile?
Will they remember your words?
Will they remember time spent with you?
Will they remember the wisdom imparted to them?

Will they smile when they think of you?
Will they speak and hear your words come out of their mouth?
Will they go to some of the same places and think of you?
Will they have gleaned much from your wisdom so they can now impart it to others?

A memory bear is a very special gift.
We must realize that we are pouring memories into our loved ones every day.
They will not need pieces of our clothes to remember us.
They will have pieces of us, tucked in their hearts.

I drove home with thoughts swirling.
I thought of a poem.
I read the poem at my aunt’s funeral in 2001.
It’s author is unknown.

The Dash

He noted that first came her date of birth
And spoke the following date with tears,
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth…
And now only those who loved her
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own
The cars…the house…the cash,
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard…
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what’s true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more
And love the people in our lives
Like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile…
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy’s being read
With your life’s actions to rehash…
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?