I was asked, very recently, to tell a story. I have mulled for some time since which story to tell. I suppose this one is, in the grand scheme of things, relatively unimportant. However, it is told with love of the memory and love for the one who asks.

To that person: know that you are cared for deeply. Know that when you open this again in the days ahead to recall what I have told you, that I am with you always. And please know that whatever comes, no matter how dark, we may always turn on a light for each other. As is the apparent mantra for those of us in here: faith manages.

When I was roughly six years old, I was gifted with a silly trifle of an object. It was a simple thing; a red rubber ball. One should never underestimate the potential for mischief making when it comes to a small child and a rubber ball. I believe my sister understood this, if my memory of the look on her face when Mum gave it to me is any indication. The vast majority of my toys were far less ambulatory, if noisier to offset the lack of movement. Even so, I cannot think even Myra could have predicted what was to unfold from a simple lump of rubber.

I'm certain by now you're aware of the size and contents of my childhood home. My parents are decidedly financially comfortable; I can certainly say I never wanted for the material, and I count myself fortunate also that I never wanted for the intellectual. We were a house of books. They were as much decoration as any framed picture, with the added thrill, even at six, of being harbingers of information. Indeed, being a house of books necessitated being a house of bookshelves, and I'm certain that you must by now be able to detect the general tenor of where my story shall lead you.

I believe this is one of those instances wherein the journey is far more important than the destination.

My rubber ball and I were infuriatingly inseparable for a few long days following its benefaction. I was exceptionally skilled even then at dividing my attention; I found I could bounce my ball whilst doing a number of other activities. I could talk and bounce. I could read and bounce, taking small breaks to turn pages. I could walk and bounce. I could, indeed, bathe and bounce the ball outside of the tub. I was thrilled when I discovered the joy of momentum such that it bounced off of the floor and the ceiling in rapid succession. The graceful arch of my red ball traversing the stairs three at a time held fascination the likes of which was rivaled only by the prospect of freely given candy (which, at six, I had a healthy childhood interest in).

In my childish glee, I rather neglected to notice that I was driving Myra slowly, but surely, insane.

My sister has always been an exceptionally patient woman. She held her tongue for some time, gently removing the ball from my fingers when time came to eat or use the facilities or otherwise be so presentable as to not distract other adults with my incessant bouncing. I have no idea how she tolerated it. I credit the early experience with my subsequent excellence in the area of hand-eye coordination, not that Inspector Thatcher would believe I possessed such a thing at all, for all she saw. I can only imagine that she thought my fascination would peter out; very likely it would have, but not before it was too late. I have much for which I should thank my sister. Refraining from plucking my rubber ball from out of the air and jamming it down my throat is among them.

Vast patience or not, there is only so much one woman may take, and when my parents left me home with my sister for a weekend, the straws began to situate themselves neatly upon the camel's back.

Saturday passed without incident. My ball and I went everywhere together. It taught me about trajectory, about momentum, force, gravity, and about how to bounce down the stairs, hop over a stack of rolled-up towels to land neatly in a dustbin. I laid my ball on the night table and when Sunday came, it was once again in my hand, bouncing from place to place along with me.

Breakfast came and went, followed by lunch, and that afternoon Myra was cooking dinner. She was making spaghetti; I was happy, as I can assure you, at six I was far less of a neatnik than I am today, and found strange pleasure in rendering my face as much a mess as I could reasonably achieve. I expressed my happiness by making laps around the kitchen table, my ball one step ahead of me all the way.

Myra stirred.

I bounced.

Myra stirred and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Oblivious, I bounced.

"Renfield, could you do that someplace else, please?" Myra asked in a strained voice that I did not recognize, so little was ever used.

"Why?" I asked in return, continuing, most rudely, to bounce.

"Because I have asked you."

I made a noise that may only be described as a petulant whine, as I wanted to be near both my sister and my ball as she cooked, but I did as she instructed. I bounced away to play in the hallway.

For a time.

Small children have a way of forgetting such things in relatively short order, and as I began to smell my sister's spaghetti sauce, I slowly meandered back in to begin making laps around the kitchen table once again. My pace picked up and I was soon brushing past chairs and doubtless making a great deal of noise. My sister could only have gritted her teeth, frustration reaching terminal capacity before finding the path of least resistance outward.

Which amounted to a very rare display of impatient anger from Myra Turnbull.

Spaghetti ladle in hand, my sister turned upon me and with a shrillness I had not known she was capable of she shouted, something to which I assure you I was unaccustomed.

"Renfield Turnbull, you will stop that this instant or I shall wallop you with this spoon!"

Relatively tame, as threats of punishment go, I know now. But very rare indeed to have directed at me. I froze in place, my eyes as wide as saucers. My ball lacked the unfettered shock that held me still, and the momentum of a particularly forceful bounce continued without regard for the mood shift.

My sister panted. My ball sailed. In fact it sailed out of the kitchen door and into another room. In fact it sailed into another room, toward one of the taller of our bookshelves, and into a rather expensive vase my mother kept at the top of a bookshelf.

The vase teetered.

My sister seethed.

I was the only one to see it.

It was one of those instances where time seems to freeze and one is seemingly able to see all the ways in which the inevitable course of events will come to disaster. I acted far before I thought, even so, diving out from under my sister's frustration and toward that book shelf, thinking that I could somehow catch the vase before it was rendered dust upon the floor.

I failed. The vase shattered beside me just as my little body impacted with the back of the bookshelf.

The 'bull-headed' pun so often made in my life may be cliche, but it is not inaccurate. I was not, in my fervor, injured. The shelf was another matter. The spaghetti sauce had run down the ladle and onto my sister's hand; I'm uncertain of why I remember this. Perhaps it was merely the strangeness of the fact that she was still holding it even as she chased me to see where I was running.

She saw it before I did.

The shelf wavered for a moment and fell, thankfully opposite me. The sound of scores of falling books was impressive, to say the least, and it did not end when I thought it would. It toppled the shelf behind it, and yet more books scattered like litter upon the wind. Trinkets from the tops of the shelves shattered and exploded upon the floor.

It was the most eventful game of dominoes of my young life, and when the dust settled, my ball had rolled off somewhere amongst the devastation.

All was silent. Myra still held her ladle. I remembered how to breathe.

Without a word, my sister turned around and marched back to the kitchen to finish dinner. I suppose it was the Turnbull drive to 'carry on'. Dinner would be finished. Then she would worry about the wasteland left in the wake of my ball.

I can vaguely remember eating dinner in silence. I can remember being dreadfully certain that I would be restricted to my bedroom until the end of time. I cannot remember the cleanup, though I'm certain I must have been made to help. I can remember delivering a relatively eloquent but assuredly rehearsed apology to my parents for the broken ceramics.

But burned into my memory until the day of my death is the perfectly preserved image of my sister, a dripping spaghetti ladle, and the first realization that she was, indeed, a human being with demonstrable limits to her patience.

I hope that this story brought a smile to your face. I hope that when you need to smile, you will re-read it. And I hope that you will remember in your darkest hours that you have been a light in mine. I love you.