A sliver of soap
I did my summer-to-winter clothes switch today. I’m behind schedule, but it’s been an interesting month getting here, even today.
As I was escorting my white shoes to their sandal pals for the long season ahead, I spied a pair of beat-up white flats that sank my heart when I picked them up. They belonged to my dearest girlfriend. She passed away more than a few years back, but it still hurts when I see something that reminds me of her.
We traveled across America, kinda like Thelma and Louise (minus the cliff), and still have friends we accumulated along the way. I have custody of them now, and the unwritten rule is that any of us can pick up the phone to relate the day’s funny moments and laugh for hours. If you’ve been blessed with friends like that, you know what I mean.
I want to share a moment in time that will make you smile, no matter how low your low is.
I was recovering from a major health hiccup (stage 4 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma), and she made me laugh every single day through phone calls, cards or visits. Early in my treatments, BBB and I would drive her to the airport for her trip home, loaded with bags from all the shopping we spent hours doing. Shopping’s always been my best medicine. She loved the scent of New England balsam, and I always made sure to stock up on it for her in lotions and other products.
It had been an unusually difficult visit, and on the way out of the airport, I received an urgent call from her. BBB and I turned around and met her outside. Apparently, they had changed the list of hazardous items, and she couldn’t take her mini balsam forest on the plane. Apparently, the soap looked like C4!
I took it and guaranteed her I’d find a way to get it to her. She hugged me tight as we said goodbye again, and she whispered with tears in her eyes, “As long as you have a sliver of soap, you’ll be OK.”
From that day forward, I always brought her a beautiful bar of soap if I traveled by car or ordered it online to arrive at her house. It became my “gift of friendship” whenever we were together.
When it was her time to live with devastating ALS, I stayed with her, armed with her precious scented soaps.
“You’ve gotta stop with the bars of soap!” she said, exasperated. “I’ve got enough soap to clean everyone in Baltimore!”
“Oh, OK. Well, I only bring it because of what you said,” I protested, and then repeated, “As long as you have a sliver of soap, you’ll be OK.”
She stared at me for a long moment, bewildered and confused. Then she gave me a smile I remember to this day.
“I said a sliver of hope, you moron, not soap!”
