Keeper

My mother had a drawer in the kitchen dedicated to ancestral Scottish thrift combined with remote possibility purpose. Known as the junk drawer, it was a mess of birthday candle ends, bits of tin foil, rubber bands big and small. Twist-ties that she (and apparently no one else, at least that Google acknowledges) called snivvies. Dried wishbones. Matchbooks holding a single match.

In this regard, I am her opposite. I will toss things even before they take up space I’d rather see empty.

I remember the junk drawer- the one next to the refrigerator- fondly. I wish I valued things more, and could see the ongoing utility of, rather than feel a powerful aversion to, odds and ends that can still be called upon to serve.

Despite my expulsive nature, though, I will never stop collecting memories of my mom. I live my life holding onto them, willingly given them unlimited space. It’s the only time I can say, with a full heart, the more, the better, because my mother is a keeper, made of light.