The Piece of String

My father had a definite philosophical bend. This past week one particular memory of such musings on his part came back to mind. I was already in college in Texas and home for the summer one year when he and I were just casually talking. I forgot what led to this, but my father said suddenly very solemnly : " In life you can have those moments where you reach into your pocket and go, what is that piece of old string doing in here ? The temptation is to just to want to throw it away. But I can guarantee that the moment you do, you will have a need for that piece of seemingly useless bit of string. " He did not elaborate, he was silent after that and walked away, going back to doing what he was doing in the house before we had started talking. Over the years, and especially since his death in 2008, these words of his have come back to me many times. I still wonder as to their meaning, or what specifically he was trying to tell me. I think in part he was referring to the throw away society we live in. Things have improved somewhat in that sense since the importance of recycling seems to have hit home, but there is no denying we are as humans a wasteful bunch. Perhaps my father was referring to the casual attitude of modern man to also treat relationships as throw away. I will never really know what he was trying so determinedly to communicate to me that day. I do take his admonition to heart. I value the importance of things, I take good care of them, and even keep a zip lock bag where I reuse ribbons and pieces of string from gifts and boxes. Perhaps I do this to keep his memory alive, I always think of him when I add another reusable ribbon or string to the bag. I also try to keep it in mind in my relationships with my friends and neighbours, my husband and son, the few family members I still have in Texas and Belgium. The sad thing is that he himself was tossed aside when he became difficult because he was showing signs of early dementia. My mother decided to throw him out of his own house, and he did not fight her on it. He never said a bad word about her to the end, while she spoke ill of him to us, her children for most of our lives, the poison of her words dripping like acid into our souls until she had us paralyzed to believe she was the victim.
I just took a brand new blanket out of its pretty box. It was tied together with a pretty silk ribbon. I took the ribbon off and rolled it up and carefully put it in the zip lock with the other ribbons. Perhaps my father sensed he would be discarded as he got older. I do not know. All I know is that his words left an impression on me, and that I try really hard not to take anything or anyone for granted.