Yesterday, I got a text at 8 AM.
Do you remember making me a sugar mountain in college for my twentieth birthday? Doesn’t seem that long ago.
To which I responded:
Oh my gosh! I forgot about that!
I didn’t. I loved it. It’s a very clear memory.
I can’t believe your baby will be twenty today.
I know. I’m going to make him a sugar mountain.
This is making me cry.
Weird what things in life end up special memories. A paper cone with sugar packets stuck on it is forever in my memory and now (maybe) his. See what you did? You started a tradition. I’ll never forget that. Thank you.
I did, indeed, tape a piece of paper together to make a cone and staple sugar packets on it. Why? Because you can’t be twenty on sugar mountain. (Also, we loved Neil Young.) My best friend was leaving sugar mountain and I wasn’t. I wanted her to have a place she could return to if she wanted. That sculpture stayed up in our dorm room like a trophy for months.
I also unintentionally started a tradition. Yesterday, twenty-three years later, she made a sugar mountain for her son.
It isn’t always the big things (weddings, funerals, et al.) that make memories. You never know what will stay with someone, what will become a cherished memory. Sometimes it’s the smallest acts, the simple stapling of sugar packets to a paper cone.
Her last text message said:
Your boys are still there. I’ll remember to send them sugar mountains.
My random thoughts in 200 words or less.
(Excluding the texts—which I’m not counting. Yes, I’m cheating.)