A neighbor of ours, a person from whom we have lived across the street for nearly twenty-six years, has moved.  After a difficult divorce and watching two children go into the world, he decided it's time to go, too.

     As Jim went through his belongings, as he sorted through decades of memories, saving some but tossing out many more, I watched the dumpster in his driveway fill up.  The silken gossamer weight of memory, I thought, here today, gone tomorrow:  what does it mean?
     To an extent, its meaning is in Jim's eyes alone.  In a much larger picture, however, its weight is for us all:  we're all travelers, passing through, roaming the hills and valleys of our imaginations, trekking along the paths of existence, looking for and stepping into our constantly changing vision.
     Good thing there is a God.