Friends For All Time

Thought for the day:  Your time is your life. That is why the greatest gift you can give someone is your time.  [Rich Warren]

Here we are. It's that time... time for the much-anticipated Back from the Future bloghop, the brainchild of those three blogging beauties Suze, Nicki, and Mary, who were obviously determined to make us think. Thanks, ladies. It was quite a challenge, but it was also fun.

Okay, so here's the set-up:

You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you... from you.

You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox — sent from ten years in the future — and it's filled with items you have sent yourself.

What's in it?

(See. I told ya it was thought-provoking.) And here's where my thoughts led ...

I slowly lift the lid, and tentatively touch the rose lying at the top of the box to see if it's real. When I stroke the velvety petal, it releases a heady sweet scent.

My hand shakes as I pick up the flower, and uncover a fading photo of Gale and me from my wedding day. We're slightly tipsy, and smiling from ear to ear. She's holding a bouquet of yellow roses —  symbolic of friendship, according to the florist. The perfect flowers for my best friend, and maid of honor. I smile back at the picture and set it aside.

Then I pull a round tuit from the box, and smile again. So silly. It looks just like the one I gave Gale when we were college roommates. We exchanged them as a reminder to always make time for each other.

Tears fill my eyes as I stare at the last item in the box. I don't want to open it. I don't want to, but I must. My hand is trembling, but I reach for the memorial card...

... and there it is, her name, printed in unforgiving black script lettering. Date of death: March 1, 2023. Tucked inside the card is a note obviously written by my hand: You're running out of time.  Her mind is slipping. 

I close my eyes, and let the tears fall. Then I blow my nose and reach for the telephone.

"Hey, stranger," I say when she answers. "It's been way too long. How about if I drive down and pick you up for lunch?"



++++++

Much may be done in those little shreds and patches of time which every day produces, and which most men throw away.  [Charles Caleb Colton]

Don't wait. The time will never be just right.  [Napolean Hill]

The bad news is time flies. The good new is you're the pilot.  [Michael Altshuler]

                                     So, what might be in YOUR box?

                       Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.