It irks me when my two very accomplished and astute daughters tell me I have too much stuff. Granted, I live in a small house and space is an issue but a large percentage of the things I have are mementos.
It’s a new year and like many others, I feel an urgency to start afresh. For me, that means tackling the job of deep cleaning the house, which in turn means reorganization. Sifting through boxes that have gathered dust, I am revisiting treasures of the past, like this collection of early childhood drawings made by my now grown daughters.
I asked myself what to do with them. Do I repackage them in a clean, discarded plastic pillowcase bag and place them once again in storage? I’m not DIY-savvy enough to create a collage, besides, I don’t have a wall big enough for all I’ve saved.
Of course, I’ve offered them to said daughters, but sadly they are not interested like their mother is in their early artistic efforts. I did share with my seven-year-old granddaughter and she enjoyed them, but I’m afraid she’ll eventually lose interest.
There is no way I would ever discard them in a trash bin. As a historian, I have cringed and felt saddened when I’ve happened upon photos in thrift or antique stores. I always feel a sense of obligation to buy them to honor those smiling, hopeful individuals in the photos, not leave them in a box to forever live in obscurity.
It’s a cold day and I have a fire warming my home. Perhaps I could bring myself to say a proper goodbye to the construction paper hearts, the glued beads, the “I love you, Mom! Your (sic) the best!” sentiments and feed them to the fire.
Maybe. Someday. Just not today.
For now, a smile forms as I tenderly gather each piece and recall the tiny hands that colored the paper, wrote the misspelled words, and the chubby cheeked child that presented it to me all those years ago, and put them in a box. To be again another year, another organization day.