By Velma M. Rose Smith, 1987

The day we cleaned the closet, Berwyn carried them out, box after box. I took off the covers and gazed at the “souvenirs of our lives”. Why do I cling to some old thing that no one else would admire?

Why reminisce and remember the bliss of a thing that others would toss in the fire? A tiny box, which had held a ring. A gift to a little girl on her 6th birthday. A toy stove, a doll, a basket, pictures, a ribbon bow, a dried bouquet from a wedding day?

A ruffled apron, the first one I wore made by Aunt Ella, not bought in a store. A small box that is falling apart. Hold two pair of little shoes. The wearers hairs have turned gray. Why don’t I throw them away?

A box of little dishes, not a one is broken, they were precious to two little girls. A bag of marbles, each one was well known – to the owner, as precious as pearls.

A small pad, made of several pieces of woolen cloth. You couldn’t guess it’s use – a pen wiper, made by a little friend, Lottie Swan, whose family was poor. She gave it to me at my 6th birthday party. At the time I thought it wasn’t much. But mama told me, it is a gift of love.

Here are two framed diplomas – Arnold’s and mine. Papa told me, hang your diploma on the wall, and be proud of it.

What’s this? a tiny folded up note. Love speaks in the few words he wrote. (I didn’t say who).

I sort and sort and neatly put it back. There is nothing here I can throw in his sack. Dianne is sorting with me. She is really good. She neatly closes the boxes and puts them back, into their old corner, or on the rack. Berwyn mumbles, “What a mess”, as he picks up an antique dress and hangs it back on it’s hook.