I understand this about women. Maybe about some men, too, but it’s the women I know the best and how, when things change, there is a need for something to hold on to. A physical, tangible thing to see or touch, to remind the heart.

Or maybe it’s just me?

It’s why we keep baby teeth and little curls and tiny quilts, tucked away safe. It’s Grandmother’s bowl, brought out for the salad at Christmas, or the old plate hung on the wall, that doesn’t fit the decor but fits a memory. Or, the little, toy dog on the bathroom shelf.

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It’s why I put his old, battered harmonica there, too, after it was found under the shoe shelf in the porch on porch-cleaning-day. When I pulled it out to vacuum behind it before all the company arrived for the big and busy day.

It’s my way of remembering, daily, to pray for my boy, tall and away and grown. It makes me happy to see it, and to think of him and his music, and I am reminded to ask the Lord’s blessing on him.

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