Maybe it’s always the little things that connect us. Keep holding us.

When I first met them in New York, I flashed to my grandfather and smiled. Their tags said the name of their store was “Stuff.” They were bright and shiny blonde women from Kansas City. It was my grandfather, a man of very few words, who politely exited each sentiment with, “and stuff.” We knew that in those two words, all the important things rested. He would tell us to “be careful around the electric fence, and stuff…” We knew exactly what the “stuff was” — it was that he loved us. The stuff I still carry.

Now I only see these women every few years at best. I walked into their store, filled with people, and glorious stuff. They called me out by name. My name. Just two words, but within them, I felt recognized, worthy, even loved.

It takes so little. I hope I can remember to do it — to do the small things — I hope we all can. The little stuff. It can, it will, hold.