Life is good as I gaze into the eyes of my daughter’s daughter’s daughter.

My newborn great-granddaughter holds onto my finger. She has no idea what she is grasping or who is cuddling her, but she holds tight.

What are the things that I desperately hang onto, not knowing their worth or what binds me to them?

There’s that blond mass of hair squirreled away in the back of my dresser — my son’s ponytail, until he arrived at the momentous age three. Why don’t I just chuck it out, as I would old to-do lists and outdated messages?

When we were first married, every Shabbos bouquet came along with a short note from my husband. Those notes served as building blocks in forming our new relationship. They sit in a special spot along with other precious gems in my top drawer.

If size is any indication of importance, my husband’s lifelong pursuit of photography has immense significance. Starting from the year we had our first child, every week was duly recorded. There are hundreds of albums on our shelves. The pictures show the progress and growth of our family, the many different homes we lived in, the trips we took, and the hundreds, even thousands, of people who passed through the portals of our various abodes.

Some of the people we’re still in close touch with; others we meet less frequently; and there are those whose name and background escape both my husband and me. But their pictures still adorn the pages of our family albums. Why?

There’s a dress I twirl on its hanger and I know I won’t fit into it, but instead of placing it on the pile of giveaways, I ceremoniously replace it in the closet. Reason can’t explain this annual episode, so what does?

My son’s shock of hair, when held in my hand, transports me back decades to his birth: my first Israeli-born child. Suddenly, projected on my mind’s monitor, I’m trudging up the sunken marble steps of the old Shaare Zedek hospital, between labor pains — there’s no elevator to convey me to the maternity ward. Bambi, the legendary midwife, glances at me and announces, “Teomim.” Twins. But only one very large boy made his appearance.

My mind flits next to the barber’s chair where the barber is chopping off my son’s flowing blond hair, along with his babyhood. In his stead sits an earnest-looking little boy, ready to take on the world. All these tumultuous emotions wrapped up in a rubber band! How could I part with it?

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 611)