Note: The author of this story is my new friend, Clyde J. Hady of Brooksville, Florida. His business Facebook is Hometown Electric. Check out his latest invention on You Tube.

Debbie and I had discussed this possibility many times, but never really understood it. I’m not sure that it can be understood, prior to the experience itself. Perhaps because there are too many variables, perhaps because we are mere humans.

For us it began on a hot humid afternoon. My first vivid memory is of Debbie standing in her mother’s kitchen, among a multitude of boxes, arguing with her mother about which boxes would go along. Debbie looked at me as if to suggest that I should help to convince her mother about the logical thing to do. I was never good at suggesting logic to people concerned about feelings. I started carrying boxes to the car.

Debbie looked at me as though to suggest that I had just undermined all of her authority. Mom looked at Debbie as though to suggest that she could still demand the respect she deserved, even if Debbie didn’t want to give it to her. I carried boxes.

As I neared the end of the boxes Dad entered the room and began mulling around as though he expected to find something. Dad was in his late 70’s and looked every bit the part. He seldom noticed his untied shoes, his unbuttoned shirt, or his matted hair. His slack personal hygiene had not diminished his energy, and he was usually into something that Mother would scold him about. Mother was also in her late 70’s and although she looked tired and worn, there was a stateliness about her that suggested she had aged before her time.

“Now what are you looking for?” Mother snapped. Debbie, ever watchful of her father, gently pulled his arm back and proceeded to button his shirt.

“I already did that once!” retorted Mother. “He just doesn’t care.”

“I can do it again, Mother,” Debbie replied. Those were the last words that I heard spoken in Mom and Dad’s house. This was the day they would move in with us.

As we left Mom refused to look at the house; Dad wouldn’t have noticed anything if he had looked. Debbie watched the house even when it was no longer in sight, hoping that somehow watching would reverse the situation, hoping that watching would turn the memories of yesterday into the wishes of today, hoping that somehow watching would reverse the ravages of time.

As we all settled into the new situation, most of the boxes, which caused so much discussion, remained untouched. They were mostly trinkets and somehow seemed inconsequential. No one seemed to miss them; Dad didn’t miss anything, and Mom had not yet finished hurting.

My biggest job when I was home was to try to keep Dad busy, which to my surprise was easier than I would have imagined. We chanced to find out one evening that Dad became mesmerized by the same programs I enjoyed watching. I admit I am a learning channel nut. I find the programs fascinating and so does Dad.

It was about three weeks into the change that Dad sat down with me to watch another of our discovery programs about mountain sheep. Dad said, “We had them once.” That was the extent of the conversation that evening. It wouldn’t be hard to recall the revelation. There were so few that they were easy to remember.

About four days later upon seeing chickens running free in some third world country Dad said, “We had them too.”

It struck me immediately that he had some conception that I would automatically remember the start of the conversation four days prior. So it seemed only natural to ask, “How many did you have?” But I received no answer.

I had been listening to Dad’s revelations for about three months when it so happened that Mom ended up watching with us. She had watched with us before but this was the first time Dad spoke when she was there. It was a program about pigs in China, again Dad decided that he had raised them before.

“You did not!” retorted Mother. “They looked nothing like that!” With that she stormed out of the room.

To my surprise she returned with an old coffee can. She promptly sat next to Dad and opened the can. After a couple of minutes searching, she took a picture and said, “These are the kind we raised.”

Dad smiled and took the picture. “I liked them.” he said.

They spent the better part of two hours remembering the better times. Dad’s conversation was no more coherent than before, but his smile was. Mom didn’t even notice that he wasn’t always with her, she was too busy remembering when he was. For that small measure of time, life was as happy as it had ever been.

We’ve unpacked the glimmers, so that we might enjoy the shine. For Mom, Dad and all of us privy to the stories of a rich full life, time has allowed special moments to be remembered again. And a life once packed away, now shines for the world to see. Glimmers of memories brought into focus through Love, Patience, and the chance of a word.