The Things We Keep

Twenty-ish years ago, I planted alpine strawberries in one of those strawberry pots with all the little pockets.

They definitely had other ideas.

They failed miserably in the strawberry pot, escaped, and settled into the landscaping rocks in front of my house. To be perfectly honest, it's kind of a mess now. They're tangled among the stones, co-mingling with weeds, and certainly not the picture of a well-planned garden or anything neat and tidy.

But they are happy there. And every June, without fail, they come back.

They're more reliable than most things in life.

Every few years, I think about pulling them out and cleaning things up. Then I remember what my dad once said to me: “Your kids are always going to remember eating strawberries from their front yard”. 

At the time, I thought he was talking about them remembering the fruit, but I’m pretty sure now that he was talking about something else.

My son came over to visit the other day, and as he got into his car to leave, I had this fleeting moment.  I quickly picked a handful of those tiny berries, ran up to his car window, and dropped them into his hand.

As he drove away, I found myself thinking, “Did I just chase him with tiny strawberries?”

I did.

And it wasn't really about the strawberries.

It was about sending something familiar – something that we kept over the years.  

The strawberries are not neat. They weren't part of the plan.

But they've become part of our story.

And I suspect we all have something like that.

What's something imperfect you've kept because the memories mattered more than appearances?