What We Keep

In marriage, it's best if only one of you -- or better yet -- neither of you is a pack rat. Unfortunately, I chose a mate who is as sentimental about stuff as I. Maybe more so, if that is possible. 

The infamous Spanish Dancer.

When we cleaned out my parents' house, my siblings and I took turns choosing an item to keep. When we were done, my sisters gathered the unchosen items to dispose of at the garage sale they had planned. 

Perusing what was left, I just couldn't stand to see certain things being sold. Like the risqué picture of the Spanish dancer that hung in our dining room all those years. (We got it from my grandmother, who gave it to my dad after he admired it hanging in her home.) This was a piece of family history soon to be sold to someone who would be buying the picture for its campy appeal, with no awareness of all it had witnessed...including the countless "discussions" my parents had over its fate. 

Then there were things like my folks' high school yearbooks. My mom's paint-by-number birds. Old comic books and Life magazines. All headed for the trunk of my Corolla, destined for a place in my home. Or my closet. 

It's hard for me to part with these things because they had meaning to my parents. They are a connection. Each one holds a memory, or many memories. I know someday my son will sift through these things and wonder why on earth I'd kept them. They'll have no value to him, and they'll be relegated to a landfill somewhere someday. But for now, while I am alive and in possession of my faculties, I will look at these things and remember. And feel blessed.