Three Things

...And Made Arrangements...

There were three things he kept with him.

Three things he loved.

Three things he'd never be seen without.

And he loved them. All three.

Two sincerely. One ironically.

He kept a Time magazine from the week he was born. Said it was the world back then.

It wasn't the world. It wasn't even a great map of the world. But it revealed many things. Not so much in the articles. But the word choices. The stodgy page design. And the absurdly out-of-their-time advertisements.

He kept a pack of matches. From a bar that long since closed. Where he met the first girl who tore his heart still beating from his chest and stomped on it with four-inch heels. Wouldn't let anyone touch the matches. Would never strike one.

The bar was called "That Place Around the Corner." Only it wasn't. It was on the end of a cul-de-sac. And out in front of the bar (and on the book of matches) was a large statue of an English Bulldog. Although it was not an English Pub.

And he kept a photo. Of the house where he was born.

It was wrinkled. And black and white.

And looked exactly like a million other houses.

But he kept these things. All three.

And he had them with him. When he died.

Because.

Because.

When people said "you can't take it with you," he never quite believed it.

And he loved them. All three.

Two with sincerity.