Promises Made, Promises Kept, Regardless

 

covenant - noun - an agreement (Google).

I can't speak for most, but I tend to keep promises. A covenant mutually agreed upon no matter how trivial is, to me, hallowed ground. However, there was promise that I made and broke: my marriage contract. Yes, I know. It's a big one. The divorce was entirely necessary, though, as overlooking adulterous behavior was not a clause included in the marriage vows, the ultimate pact between a couple and God, and as far as I know, it still isn't. Still, there may be a few avant garde, extremely liberal partners out there who may sneak it in somewhere to seal the deal of an open marriage. It's just not my style. 

Last Thursday, the incidental covenant I made was an off-the-cuff accord between a patient I had just met in a nursing home, a stroke survivor, Janet, who was my aunt's roommate for a few days, and myself. Because the food in the institution of myriad get-well-soon wishes was sub-par and the complaints from both critics, Ann and Janet, verbose and sincere, I transmogrified into a contemporary genie wrapped in a faux fur Lord and Taylor coat and promised each a taste of what she was drooling for: my aunt wanted meat loaf from her favorite restaurant, Charlie Brown's (no relation to the adored Peanuts' character), and Janet, a piece of apple pie. Both were very obtainable desires that I could fulfill with little effort. 

My aunt's sudden passing that Sunday threw a wrench in my plans, but not completely. As I sat in St. Bart's Catholic Church enduring my aunt's funeral mass, a voice welled up inside of me (Whose it was, I don't know for sure.) and said, "Buy the piece of apple pie for that Janet woman, and do it today." Not being one to dismiss any decent directives (This one could've been from my aunt), I decided to fulfill my initial pledge and do it. 

After the repast, I found a bakery, bought a slice of apple crumb pie from a nice server who sealed it in a box, included a folded napkin and plastic fork, and put all in a brown paper bag. Small sack in hand, I ran over to the post office, borrowed (and returned) a Sharpe, scribbled "Janet, room 13" on the front of the bag, hopped into my car, drove the concealed dessert several miles up the hill, and dropped the promise off at the nursing home. Hopefully, it got to Janet. Hopefully, she enjoyed every morsel, every crumb of the crumb topping and didn't obsess over who could have left it for her. Hopefully, she understood the moral of the story:

Some covenants don't need a signature to bind them. 

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