“Do you know that you make the same look you made when you were little,” Ray asked.
“What look?” I replied, not knowing if it was a compliment or the beginning of a serious discussion.
“Rolling your eyes and looking to the side, like you did in the picture of you and Tommy in the Christmas card.”
“I do? Well, the little boy is still inside me, as yours is in you. I look at you and see you holding on to Bob on the tricycle.”
“Yes, I know,” Ray said. “And we should never lose touch with that little boy.”
Everything in our lives is temporary. Our favorite ice skates, sweater, and scarf that we thought gave us our unique look many years ago have long been in a dump, rotting away along with our tricycle, the dickies we wore with pride, and the Motown 45 RPMS. I loved my records and had a special box for them. In college, I left the box on the heater in the apartment and the records all melted.
Everything around us are things we ought not cling to, as the people who lost their homes in the fires of California or the bombings in the Middle East can tell us. “What would you grab?” We ask one another. “What would you think was necessary?”
I’d grab Ray, the dog, my wallet, phone and car keys. If I had the time, I’d take my iPad and a charger. What I’d need to leave behind would be all the beautiful things I love such as our china and silver, the Moorcroft pottery, oriental rugs, and antique furniture. Ray would list his tax returns, insurance policies, deeds.
But all of that, and our baby books, letters from our deceased family members, the old copy of the Tao Te Ching we read every morning, with my mother’s funeral card as a book marker, would be gone in a matter of moments.
So, what endures? Love for each other. Memories. Gratitude. And, of course, the child within. Once we knew we were safe, I’d still be mischievous, and looking for ways to show kindness to others. Ray would still be sweet, patient, thoughtful, and totally in love with me, as I would be with him. If we had each other, and nothing else, and if we were content with that, we’d be rich men.
I’ve come to the point in my life where I’m able to look around at the things we own and feel that I don’t need any of it. If we’re spared a natural disaster, everything we own, that was previously owned by another, will again be owned by another. Nothing stays the same, not even us. Along the way, we’ve let go of insecurities, quit drinking and smoking, learned to sidestep dramas, and don’t cling to religious dogmas. We accept our own mortality, and we know that we’re still inside the same youngster who rolls his eyes.
Brian McNaught's new memoir, “A Prince of a Boy,” is available on Amazon.
