The Pyramid on My Nightstand

At eighty-two, I've learned that life's treasures aren't the things we expected. Take this pyramid paperweight on my nightstand—crystal, heavy, catching morning light like a prism. Arthur brought it back from Egypt in 1972, when we still believed we had forever. He'd stood before those ancient stones and thought of me. That's what friendship is, isn't it? Being someone's thought in a crowded world.

The pyramid sits next to a faded photograph of my grandfather's bull—Old Bess, she was called. That magnificent creature pulled our family through the Depression, literally and figuratively. I remember sitting on the fence, watching her graze, understanding even then that strength comes in many forms. Sometimes it's muscle and power. Sometimes it's simply not giving up.

Yesterday, my great-granddaughter asked about the silver fox pin on my lapel. "Did you hunt foxes, Grandma?" she whispered, eyes wide. I laughed, the sound surprising even me. No, darling. This pin belonged to my sister-in-law Margaret, who was cunning as a fox in the best way—she could find bargains at estate sales, track down lost relatives, solve problems that stumped everyone else. She taught me that wisdom wears many coats.

Now I sit beneath the palm tree my late husband planted, its fronds dancing in the afternoon breeze. He said palms represented peace—something we both needed after the war. We've weathered storms under these leaves, celebrated anniversaries, welcomed grandchildren, said goodbye to too many friends.

The pyramid, the bull, the fox, the palm—each a piece of someone who shaped me. Arthur, Grandfather, Margaret, Thomas. My friends, my family, my anchors. What matters isn't what we accumulate, but who we hold close. These things are just vessels for love, for memory, for the parts of ourselves we've given away and received back multiplied.

I suppose that's the wisdom of age: understanding that we're all pyramids built by others, stone by stone, memory by memory.