Potato Sticks and Gin Rummy

The package in the mail with potato sticks brought it all back, a good memory from a horrible time in my life. The gift was from a high school friend, who in the early stages of my separation and divorce, would take the train from Boston to visit me and my infant daughter. M claimed Llara's nose was so tiny that it was a miracle she could breath through it. Neither of us were in good places, but days never seemed sad when we we could talk it out together.

When the baby napped, M and I would play gin rummy and munch on potato sticks. It didn't matter who won, she was a breath of sanity.

Her parents were surrogate parents as well as they had been for me throughout high school. Her mother would visit on Tuesday nights often bringing something for the baby. Her father would do chores, and unlike the husbands of some of my friends, they were needed household chores -- a leaky faucet, a lamp that didn't work -- which had nothing to do with sex. One night he appeared with a big, big grin and a round green moon wagon that Llara loved to ride in.

M and I have shared being foul weather friends for years and later in life were able to transition into being fair-weather friends, delighting in the fact we each have found ways to be happy that we would never have thought possible when one of us would say "Deal," or do "Do you want another glass of Coke?"

So the can contained more that just the potato sticks. It contained a life full of memories.