My niece emailed me this morning all excited about some guy she had recently met. They're getting together tonight, she wrote, and her fingers are crossed.

A friend lives a grand story, even flying around with presidents. But he always sounds most happy when he talks about being with his grandson.

This past week, my son and I seemed to be at each other all the time - over homework, his teenage tone with me, how he'd purposely stuck his thumb into my coffee after I, unthinkingly, had used my finger to scoop out some mashed potatoes.

After one row, I got so frustrated, I jumped into the shower to cool off. Another time, my son stomped off, and for a good few minutes, wouldn't tell me where he'd gone.

Eventually, of course, we always made up. One of us would apologize. The other would follow suit, and as the space between us collapsed, even the air seemed keen on doing a little gig.

Years ago, while living in Asia, I met the rabbi in charge of Hong Kong's Jewish community. He was gnome-like in size, ducky in character and seemed less like a religious leader than a wonderful, wise friend.

We talked easily about everything, including love. "It's the only thing that keeps you going," he insisted.

"How do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean that love, and love alone, gives you reason to live. And I don't mean being loved, but loving - a person, a dog, god, your garden, it doesn't matter what, so long as you love." The rabbi paused a moment, then looked at me closely. "Never forget that."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

I nodded my head.

"Good," said the rabbi. "A promise is a promise."