Happy tired. Listening from the back seat to the cheerful chatter of people I just love, my head against the window...
"Lime or strawberry?"
"Did you get your fifth?"
Rubber purrs on pavement and we whistle along. Ski slopes behind, home before. Backdrop of sunset and rolling hills covered with a fir coat of pine.
"What page were we on?"
The book opens and the story goes on. An old fashioned tale of a century ago, alive with meaning and simple joy. I listen, but only with half of my head. Because forthwith I'm snagged by this old-fashioned story, and an old-fashioned concept that shouldn't be remarkable, but is.
His word of honor.
Used to be, a fellow was slow to make a promise, because a promise meant something.
Mhm, mhm, yes. Doesn't it still?
I don't know. You tell me.
When I say a thing, can the world set their clocks by it, and keep good time?
When I say I'll ____, do I actually deliver, or do I just try?
I'll pray for you.
I'll be there at 6.
Sure mum, can do.
Darkness gathers over the high country. I pulse this resolve.
To treat every "Sure, I'll..." like an old-fashioned promise.
My word of honor.