I’m not so good at throwing things away. I’ve known this amount myself for some time now. And I am reminded each time I do some house cleaning.
A year or so ago, I decided I was going to put emotion aside and really hit my bedroom. Anything I didn’t use regularly was going to be turfed out. No exceptions. No reprieves.
Despite my best intentions, and determined attitude, I may have tossed 15% of what I found. And most of that was just things I had kept from exes over the years.
Boxes were opened, and memories flooded out.
I have Valentines from grandparents who passed away in the 80s.
Handwriting that had been covered with dust someplace in the back of my mind was right there.
I have little craft projects from my niece that I would go back into a burning building for.
I have trinkets. As I sorted through them, each yelled its story.
Things are memories.
Loved ones touched these items. They picked them out. The held them. They gave them to you.
Sometimes I feel like a curator for family history.
Even if these particular stories are only really interesting to me.
Maybe especially then.
These memories form the core of who I am. They long ago began the process of influencing how I feel and think and act.
And maybe that’s a lot of weight to put on a Donald Duck valentine.
But if it reminds you of a woman who would sneak veggie juice into your pancakes when you were a kid, because she didn’t think you were eating well. A woman, taken too soon, who spent every waking hour trying to make sure you grew up healthy and happy and safe…
Maybe it’s just the right amount of weight.