I make a lot of lists to remind myself of things I need to do.

I make grocery lists and more often than not I leave them on my kitchen table. I go to the store without them and forget to pick up a few things. Then I have to make a second trip later in the week to get salt or butter or onions that I forgot.

When I get a new calendar I go through it month by month and circle the dates of the birthdays of my family and friends. They are important to me. My friends would survive and forgive me if I forgot to send them a card or gift for their birthday, but I would feel bad if I disappointed them.

I've sent birthday cards and gifts to one friend every year for over forty years. if I was late or if I forgot, she'd forgive me, but I'd feel terrible. It would be like saying she wasn't important to me, or I was too busy to think of her.

I feel like the Ten Commandments were God's List to remind us what to do. We all know the list of "Thou shalt nots. . . . "

A century ago, men carried pocket watches in their vest or trousers. The watches had metal covers over the glass faces, and when the button on the stem was pressed, the cover would open to reveal the dial.

Most watches were cheap metal, they cost a dollar but some were gold and were engraved with leaping deer or various scenes. Sometimes the pocket watches were kept on long chains. A man might check the time a dozen times a day. He'd take his watch out of his pocket, flip open the case, check the time and put the watch back in his pocket.

Ned was a farmer, a hard-working man who was married to Annie for 49 happy years. If there is such a thing as a perfect marriage, it was theirs. When Ned died at the age of 77 his son inherited his father's pocket watch. When he opened the case he found the lid had something engraved on the inside:, "Say something nice to Annie."

For 49 years, whenever Ned opened his watch to check the time, there was a reminder to "Say something nice to Annie."

It was his list, there was only one thing on his list and that was to say something nice to his wife.

When my children were born, the first words they heard me speak were, "I love you." Now, whenever they call me, I end every conversation with "I love you," in case they are the last words I'll ever speak.

I've probably said that ten thousand times to them over the years. They know I love them, but it's important for me to say it and for them to hear it.

Children make Christmas lists for Santa, to remind him of the toys they want for Christmas. Some adults make Christmas lists of gifts they either hope to get or lists of things they want to buy for their family and friends. We make lists to remind us of ways to make our family and friends happy. Little things but important things, like the right gift at the right time.

The card companies also make "Belated Birthday" cards for people who slip up, forget, or are too busy to send a card on time. They are nice cards, but not quite the same as a card that arrives early or on time. It tells the person they are important but not a priority.

I was married 27 years before my husband passed away. My birthday is April 23. My husband always believed it was April 16. His sister's birthday was April 16. For 27 years I received a card or gift on April 16. Early in our marriage, I would point out he had the dates mixed up, and he'd say the next year he'd get it right, but he never did. Finally, I just celebrated my birthday a week early. He remembered my birthday; he just never remembered the date.

We all want to be remembered, we want to be on someone's list. We all have "Secret Anniversaries" written on our hearts. Dates we remember that aren't on a calendar, dates no one else in the world would know about. The date we met our first love, the date of our first kiss, the date we got out heart broken, secret dates that aren't important to anyone else, but dates we remember.

What is on your list? Who is on your list?

Crying Wind is the author of Crying Wind and My Searching Heart, When the Stars Danced, and Thunder in Our Hearts, Lightning in Our Veins.