A mum’s coin bag

How odd!
Ben and Jethro, two little brothers in West Auckland can say:
This is our mum’s mum’s mum’s mum’s mum’s coin bag.

Joanna and Julia, two little girls in South Auckland can say:
This is our mum’s, mum’s, dad’s, dad’s, mum’s coin bag.

My dad GB and aunt Suguna athai can say:
This is our mum’s coin bag.

And between these little ones and these oldies, over 105 others can trace a direct link to the gentle owner of this coin bag.

She, Mara Nahomi, my namesake had passed away when GB was in the US to do his MS and gain some OE. He was broken hearted. When he returned in 1963, he was asked to choose a keepsake, and he chose this bag. We have had it since.

Today it is falling apart. But when I was little, it was a strong little bag with the pencil and a half blade in it. The blade has since disappeared.

The disappearance of a blade is of no consequence. The bag has outlived many generations of people who have vanished from the face of the earth, and that is sobering. As surely as they have gone, so will we all.

Man is like a breath; his days are like a fleeting shadow. Psalm144:4

Teach us to number our days,that we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12

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