My parents are gone, but I still have their things. A plate, a chair, a matchbook, a sweater, an old cell phone. Something of them lives on in this stuff. Send a picture of an object and tell me what it does to you and how it makes you feel about your mom and dad, dead or alive. Then go clean up your room. Thank you
Mom is 95. Her outgoing tide is reflected in her gifts to me. These days, Christmas is a $10.00 check. But in her full strength, the gifts were eclectic, unexpected and always treasured. This magenta sweatshirt is thin now, spotted, torn and still extra long. She wanted it long, she told me, so I could cover my bottom in the cold. On especially needy evenings I put it on. It was the last thing she really picked out for me. I wear it when I need a whiff of the kind of love one does not have to deserve.