I drive along past him as he struggles towards the road to water the purple pansies that are growing up under his mailbox. I admire the tenacity of this man -- his willingness to remain independent. But it is heartbreaking to see him struggling with the watering can: It has been raining all morning, and the ground the ground is still wet.

Surely this simple act of watering flowers carried more meaning than what flatly appeared. Yes, as long as he was strong enough to carry a hefty can of water - to tend to these newly planted flowers -- he would be tough enough to take care of himself. And I couldn't help but consider that perhaps in some way, these young flowers were taking care of the aging man as well...

Watching him made me start to think about the simple act of carrying things and how often the thing we carry is heavier than what it might appear at first glance and how sometimes the true weight of the things we carry cannot be entirely measured or lifted by another.

Sure, we all carry functional things - the list only begins with a wallet. Pen. Chapstick. Pocket knife. Cigarettes. Lighter. Hairbrush. Face powder. Handkerchief. And there are symbolic things a rabbit's foot. A lock of hair. A cross. A pebble from the beach. A good luck coin. Things that no one else can see that we carry to give us some unspoken inner strength - making us feel somehow closer to a loved person or place. A pocket full of quiet faith...

In Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried, "First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha... They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rucksack." Martha didn't really love the lieutenant -- but carrying the letters that she had once held gave him comfort that maybe...just maybe she might. Carrying things can do that to a man.

A man I once knew used to carry a shiny smooth Buckeye Chestnut -- a first-date souvenir from a somewhat magical autumn night. What could be more romantic? Like carrying a loved one about with you as a button on your shirt. Carrying small treasures can remind us of who we are who we think we love and who we hope will love us back.

But not all things we carry appear as dreamy. The other night at the drugstore, I saw an elderly couple tenderly walking out as I hastily entered the store. Cradled in his right arm, the man was carrying a little brown paper bag (surely prescription medications) -- and with his left arm, he was holding his wife's hand.

Let's be honest: you may hold a successful job and bring in a decent enough salary but there's not much that can compare to holding hands while walking out of the drugstore even if you are carrying a little brown paper sack of blood pressure medication.

A widow I once knew used to carry a tissue in her hand it was always there tucked in her palm as she puttered about rearranging piles of papers and wiping the dust from her husband's photograph. I see her now, pressing the black velvet-backed frame to her chest, gushing over his rugged good looks (which only improved with the years).

There is often peace found in holding things. I think of the time shortly after my grandfather passed away I came across an index card in my grandmother's recipe box -- scrawled in his shaky writing. In the hush of the kitchen on that fall afternoon, holding a tomato sauce stained recipe card, it was as if he were there sitting at the table whistling a care-free tune as he wrote.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the things that people carry for one another, too. The things we hold and carry for another human being symbolize our support. When the load gets too much whether the weight of a suitcase or the heavy pain of loss it is the people who really care about us who lighten what we must lift. These acts of kindness are often unforgettable.

"Let me take that for you." Let me help."

I remember as a scrawny young Army soldier just recovering from a bad bout of the flu, trudging along on a 25 mile hike through the rough terrain of Northern CA the lieutenant quietly grabbed my 4 lb. Kevlar helmet off of the top of my massive rucksack. Even now, I think of how his unspoken support lifted my cement filled step. It wasn't really about the 4 lb helmet it was about knowing that someone else gave a damn.

On a recent trip to the hospital, waiting alone for an MRI I look up from my book to notice the room full of mostly elderly couples. One man has a bloody cut on his forehead his wife is holding his jacket nodding with exhaustion to the attendant who speaks softly to only her. Another couple sits sleeping beneath the "Ellen" show; the woman wakes up from her nap to nudge the man next to her, and hand him some important looking papers.

An elderly gentleman gently passes his watch to his wife.

And it suddenly becomes clear to me that, when all is said and done it's the letting go of what we hold onto that makes us most strong. And the best we can hope for really, is to have someone we love to sit and wait with us and hold our things.

Listener-Commentator Lisa Forrest is a librarian at Buffalo State College.

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