Every year, I recall the Thanksgiving I was 16. My sweet dad had recently died, and I felt I would drown in an ocean of grief.
Recently, I sat down to write love notes to friends who have lost someone dear to them this past year. There were too many.
Then one day I held open the heavy mall doors for a painfully stooped elderly man inching his way out. He said he’d made do for 60 years after breaking his back in World War II, until arthritis forced him to bend to the cane. I thanked him for his service and said I was in no hurry at all. And yet, when we cleared the doors, I cut short our pleasant conversation and hastened on my way. I never asked his name, but now wish I could visit with him again. He was even older than my dad would be now.
Durango has been kind to me. I view this whole community as a beloved friend; as family.
It is my hope that in this blessed season – in this world that appears to have gone mad – each one of us will spend less time frantically shopping for unnecessary things, and more time enjoying the camaraderie of the people who are still with us, and happy memories of those who have passed on. That’s what matters.
I love you, Durango. Thanks.
Priscilla C. Hays
Durango
