"Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius.  Will you remember to pay the debt?'
---Socrates, after taking the hemlock.

Once upon a time when there were still Indians, Gypsies, bears, and bad men in the woods of Tennessee where I played and, more important still, there was no death, a promise was made to me.  One endless summer afternoon my father sat in the eternal shade of a peach tree, carving on a seed he had picked up.  With increasing excitement and covetousness I watched while, using a skill common to all omnipotent creators, he fashioned a small monkey out of the seed.  All my vagrant wishes and desires disciplined themselves and came to focus on that peach-seed monkey.  If only I could have it, I would possess a treasure which could not be matched in the whole cosmopolitan town of Maryville!  What status, what identity, I would achieve by owning such a curio!  Finally I marshaled my nerve and asked if I might have the monkey when it was finished (on the sixth day of creation).  My father replied, "This one is for your mother, but I will carve you one someday." 

Days passes, and then weeks and, finally, years, and the someday on which I was to receive the monkey did not arrive.  In truth, I forgot all about the peach-seed monkey.  Life in the ambience of my father was exciting, secure, and colorful.  He did all those things for his children a father can do, not the least of which was delighting in their existence.  One of the lasting tokens I retained of the the measure of his dignity and courage was the manner in which, with emphysema sapping his energy and eroding his future, he continued to wonder, to struggle, and to grow. 

In the pure air and dry heat of an Arizona afternoon on the summer before the death of God, my father and I sat under a juniper tree.  I listened and wrestled with the task of taking the measure of his success and failure in life.  There came a moment of silence that cried out for testimony.  Suddenly I remembered the peach-seed monkey, and I heard the right words coming from myself to fill the silence:  "In all that is important you have never failed me.  With one exception, you kept the promises you made to me--you never carved me that peach-seed monkey." 

Not long after that conversation I received a small package in the mail.  In it was a peach-seed monkey and a note which said:  "Here is the monkey I promised you.  You will notice that I broke one leg and had to repair it with glue.  I am sorry that I didn't have time to carve a perfect one." 

Two weeks later my father died.  He died only at the end of his life. 

For me, a peach-seed monkey has become a symbol of all the promises which were made to me and the energy and care which nourished me and created me as a human being.  And, more fundamentally, it is a symbol of that which is the foundation of all human personality and dignity.  Each of us is redeemed from shallow and hostile life only by the sacrificial love and civility which we have gratuitously received.... 

In identifying myself as one who lives by promises and promising, I find the principle which gives unity to my life and binds together the past, the future, and the present.  Without losing the spontaneity of significant action in the present, I transcend every dying moment toward my roots in the past and end in the future.  I have a story. 

--Sam Keen, To a Dancing God (1970).