Yesterday, I dusted my furniture. The wood of piano, tables, bureau, all looks bright and shiny. Why do I put off this chore, since I enjoy the dust-free furniture so much? I’ll tell you–it’s moving the stuff I have sitting on top. Many people would look at all the small objects and wonder why I keep them. To anyone else, it’d be just junk. But to me, it’s treasure.
Every article, every piece, believe me, has a story. So, if I discarded, I’d be throwing away not only the small, ceramic pepper shaker, but I’d be throwing away the reason I have it. Now, how in the world can a writer throw away a story?
When I’m gone, the next generation will have no choice but to rid themselves of some of the accumulated inheritance simply because there wouldn’t be room in the average house for theirs, mine, and past generations of stuff.
I’m very sure I have no valuable antiques; oh, what I have is valuable all right, but only to me. So, I’ll just keep dusting, moving, and enjoying the owl music box and the crocheted snowman, and the books, books, and more books. And, because I’d regret any rash decisions, I’ll pass the buck. I’ll let someone else deal with it. After all, what’s one woman’s junk is another one’s treasure.
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