Standing in the grocery store checkout line just before Christmas, I couldn't stop my hand reaching out and grabbing a can of cashews to place into my cart.
Dad wasn't much of a shopper. In fact, he may have been the only person on the planet who is worse at it than I am. But for many Christmases in the eighties and nineties, he made sure that there was a can of cashews under the tree for me. I'm not sure when it started and stopped as dementia may have prevented him from continuing the tradition in his last few years. Perhaps Mom covered for him then; I simply don't remember.
His last Christmas with us, and I use the word, with, very loosely, was eleven years ago, and if I was ever gifted with the traditional tin of cashews since, I certainly don't remember: not after Mom's last Christmas seven years ago, for sure.
I had really forgotten all about it, but this year, my memory was triggered whilst standing in the checkout line, and I reached for both the can and the memory. It's just a small thing, a very small thing, but it warms me somehow.
Note: This should be my final Christmas Memory post for this year, which I think is the rather remarkable fourth post about my reveries. Thinking about the past is, undoubtedly, a sign of my own aging, although I hope it's a long while before I really consider myself old. I also hope that more memories will surface next year. Actually, I already have one in mind; I was going to post it this year but didn't get around to it, and it's past time to move on.
PS: After playing on the word, hooking, in the last post, think of what I could have done with this one. But I resisted. Aren't you proud of me?