In the Bag

“We have the l’chayim pictures,” she shrugged. “Why would I save extra junk?”

I say she’s a cold fish, she says I’m a hoarder. Keeping the fax (remember faxes?) I sent my husband the Shabbos of his aufruf, my babies’ hospital bracelets, and the “gold” brooch my grandmother gave me in high school (those were all the rage pinned onto the lapels of our Shabbos coats) is not called hoarding. It means I have a heart. I’m nostalgic.

Doesn’t it?

Maybe one day the brooch will make it to a giveaway bag. (Wait, you thought I’d throw it out? So… no.) But no matter how many times I clean my closet, purging the clothes that will never again fit or the items that are embarrassingly 2017 (I have teenagers who care), there’s one bulging little sack that will be moved from shelf to corner, corner to shelf, but never, ever purged.

I have a brown faux leather pocketbook I bought in 12th grade that came with me to seminary. I never used it in Israel, but it ended up collecting all the letters I got over the year.