The bartender’s dark hair waves back, a modern-day James Dean minus the brill cream. His eyes are liquid chocolate, mournful, yet bright. With the ease of a seasoned professional, he greets us poised and ready, positioning napkins that will soon be absorbent placemats for well poured beverages. Engraved on his nametag: Ever.

“Tell us about your name,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named Ever.”

He laughs. His English is fluent and flawless, but there’s the taste of another native tongue on his lips. “I was born with a marking on my chest. It reminded my parents of the infinity sign,” Ever tells Smokin Hot Love Biscuit and me.

“A birthmark?”

He nods. Of course, I desperately want to see this infinity sign, but SHLB gives me a warning glance, so I use my inquisition skills and rake around for the details.

Ever is the fifteenth kid to his father, who had five children with each of his three wives. (Sounds like a word problem from 5th grade.) His parents crowned him with the title, knighting him as the lasting sort. “Not forever,” he says smiling. “But a long time.”

Just as Buddy the Elf became obsessed with Francisco, I’ve been repeating Ever, volleying it back and forth in my brain. It’s durable, like Craftsman and Husqvarna. It holds up under wash and wear, like Carharrt. Ever is sound. It has staying power, a good return on investment.

The google machine defines ever: (1) at any time; (2) at all times. There’s blessing and expectation that accompanies this name. How different the story might ring if Ever’s parents had named him Temporary or Fleeting or Transient. Such value is placed on that which lasts, yet not much in life earns the validation of the ever stamp.

There are times that I lament over fallen friendships and short-lived seasons. When I look back on my camera roll, those captured in the images appear close and happy, staring forward with blind assurance as though nothing would change. In some situations, I even sang at the top of my lungs, “Together, forever,” naming the text groups with unbreakable titles that implied the long haul, confusing forever with ever and pretending that ever only had one side.

But not all things last a long time. Life is cellular and there’s division. In disclosure, some things closed out by my choice, some by the choice of others, some by time and circumstances, the natural selection and evolution of relationships and life. The hardest is that some things don’t last because one or more of the people change to a different version of themselves and there is no longer a fit. That part smarts a bit. Does the fact that things didn’t endure minimize meaningfulness? Hard to qualify and quantify. And, if I learned something from the experience – even if bad – then does the lesson count as worth it? Maybe.

 SHLB tells a story of driving down the road once, (he worked in sales for most of his career,) listening to a motivational Brian Tracy cassette tape. The message suggested that one of the blockers to success was not being able or willing to let things go. At that moment, SHLB decided to forgive all the people who had ever wronged or hurt him. I don’t know if this was an itemized list or more of a blanket approach, but he did it, he forgave and released. Slate cleared. He reflects that this opened the space for him to have different relationships moving forward.

In contrast, I’m more inclined to hold tight to what goes down. I have stellar recall and it serves me well when I descend into my grudge cellar where I have cataloged transgressions alphabetically and chronologically. The Dewey Decimal system of not letting shit go. My ever expectation isn’t fair to those I impose it upon. I read once that we comingle with others for a reason, season, or lifetime. Maybe that’s applicable in reconciling my accounts down in the cellar.

When I dig deep, I don’t really think that many of us set out to do damage. Except for those who are certain about their reincarnation, most of us are first timers at this life thingy.

Reason.

Where I get caught up in the ever trap is in jumping straight to the second definition – at all times, not giving credit to the at any time part. Maybe ever doesn’t have to be forever, every, or its opposing force never – maybe ever can just be in that one span of time – in those moments.

 Several years back I bought a Lily of the Nile plant. I didn’t know anything about the species, I just liked the flower. When transplanting it into the yard, I knocked the bloom off. Dang. It looked like weirdly positioned ground cover demanding a prominent spot in my flower bed.

The Lily spread and I waited in anticipation the following June. Nada. It stalked up like a corn patch, but no flowers appeared.

Year three, a bud started at the center of the stalks. This flower is the turtle of bloomers. Each day, my neighbors and I evaluated the progress. “Is this sucker ever going to bloom?” When it finally fully opened, it was spectacular. It didn’t stay around that long, slumping over, top heavy and exhausted. But boy howdy, it was cool while it lasted.

Year five, I now have “Lillies” of the Nile as the mother plant has propagated, crowding in beside my other flowers. This year, there are signs of eight potential blooms, doubling last year’s four. In its glory, it’s my favorite of any plant I’ve ever grown.

Season.

 My Uncle Dan was a connoisseur of sweets. When he and Aunt Phyllis visited our family, Mama made a pot of coffee and served up some of cake or pie. “Jean, just let me have a little piece,” he always said. Then he asked for another. Sometimes he went for a third or fourth. Enjoying the coffee, dessert, and conversation, laughter rising and falling from the dining room table as we kids played outside with our cousins past dark and bedtimes. Uncle Dan always summed up those evenings with a wink and the simple phrase, “Best I ever had.” He, Aunt Phyllis, and my parents are gone now, but in the light and meaning of ever, they last in my memory.

Lifetime.