Yesterday I cried…at the bank. I was in the process of closing my account, answering a bunch of mundane questions – the last four digits of my social security number, where the account was opened…and then the cashier asked the one I had been dreading, “Who was with you when you opened this account?” It was my late grandfather, Zoltan Lazar. He had taken me to the bank when I was nine years old so I could get my own debit card and he put $100 into my savings account (at the time, I was fairly convinced I could purchase a house with that money). I remember feeling elated as I walked out into the parking lot. Nobody had ever given me such responsibility and I promised to keep it safe, tucked away in my velcro wallet. It goes without saying that there are certain milestones in our lives that remind us of those who have passed – my college graduation, when I got my first job, our wedding day. But those times when you’re not expecting it are sometimes the most piercing. I managed not to have a complete meltdown at the Wells Fargo, quietly slipping out to my car just in time to feel the tears stain my cheeks. I will no longer see “customer since 1992” on my bank card. I’ll save it though, stored away in a folder, deactivated. I’ll never lose the memory, but it’s nice to know that I can still look at it from time to time.
