I know what she did. Maybe she didn't intend to leave me in the dark, but that's where I was--nestled in my glorious bliss. She calls me a packrat. But are memories only to be imagined? Or can we hold them in our hands and smell their faded glory?
It may seem like nothing, but it was my boy's wallet. More like a coin purse, but do you think I'd tell him that? He inherited it from his brother, the mesh-sacked Zebra with the zipper down the back, and he carried it with his pennies and nickels--all of them quarters to him.
He has a new wallet now, one that folds into velcro, but this was his first and it embodies him. Tonight it toppled out of my trunk, an unsold offering at the community consignment sale. She had tried to pawn our memory for a dollar. My tears for this memory are worth more than that.
Where is that 'memory' going to end up? Will it be shoved into a closet never to be seen, again? Better that it should have a chance to be a good memory for someone else. Let it go, John. Let it go.
Posted by: Bethany | September 18, 2009 at 10:33 AM
Thank you Bethany. Thank you.
Posted by: paulavano | September 18, 2009 at 11:10 AM
I'm here for you Paula...
Posted by: Bethany | September 18, 2009 at 12:56 PM
LOL! Let it go, John! Let it go. ;o)
Posted by: Karen | September 18, 2009 at 01:08 PM
Bethany! I JUST read your comment and saw I typed the same thing as you (at the end). HA! Great minds!
Posted by: Karen | September 18, 2009 at 01:09 PM