When it no longer matters

Nine years ago, Steph got me for my 40th birthday, a 1 ounce bottle of Chanel no. 5 in the classic, square, crystal bottle. It was a very meaningful and lovely gift and I have nursed that bottle of purfume along all these nine years until I am now down to a fraction of a fraction, perhaps only about a week's worth, left. A couple of years ago, I vowed that once I got down to the last of it, and used it all up, that we would be wealthy enough to comfortably replace it without having to go without a week-and-a-half worth of groceries in order to do so. I've made a ritual out of repeating this vow each time I pull the crystal stopper out of the bottle and brush it across my wrists, forearms, and behind my ears. However, when I sat down this morning to perform the ritual, it suddenly flashed through my mind that although I have enjoyed this extravagant little luxury all these years, I no longer have the need to replace it. I realized that after nine years, and so many ups and downs, joys and sorrows, that the giver of the gift was still here with me, and her love and devotion for me, as well as mine for her, has only increased, as the perfume in the bottle has decreased. I suddenly realized that it no longer mattered if the perfume could be replaced, because what it represents is priceless, can never be replaced, and will never be used up.