As I was arriving at the dentist yesterday, I saw an old college classmate (I think the only one who lives in my town, well, that I know of). He told me that he just got remarried two weeks ago. He looked really happy and sounded really happy. His first wife died about 2 years ago from brain cancer, not a good way to go, but she was always positive and fought valiantly for awhile. But it must have been hell to go through that with her, and it is hard to imagine how things can better after that. Clearly, he deserves to be happy and I was happy for him that he had gained that. And I was happy that I had run into him.
My teeth were fine enough; not too much drama there, thank G-d.
When I was leaving, Grumpy was pulling up to the office. You see, that’s the name on the front license plate of the car of one of our old neighbors, the one that I referred to as the old bear coming out of hibernation. He goes to the dentist!
Of course he does. But a Jewish dentist? What are the odds?
My instinct was to run back inside to ask my dentist all about him.
I went home.
Later that day, I went to pay a shiva call to my friend, the one who wanted to know what else she could tell her mother to hold on longer. I never came up with more things. And, I guess, her mother knew that there was a limit to what you could ask.
My husband told me this morning that she relayed to him about one of the things I had told her on one of our walks together actualized at the house. I had told her that she should say, “But Daddy won’t know where to put the plastic containers away!” I think I probably said something about where things go in general. But sure enough, last night her father said, “I don’t know where these go!” holding some plastic containers in his hands, looking very forlorn. She said she knew that her mother was smiling over that.
I knew my husband doesn’t know where things go; I know her husband doesn’t know, either.
But the truth is, we don’t know where things really go, do we?