Tiffany Painter

I was recently cleaning out some boxes in my basement when I came across some old clothing and cross-stitched towels. I had no idea what they were until I found a note. My husband’s grandmother had attached a hand-written note letting us know these items had belonged to one of her relatives, and therefore, one of our relatives. The problem is I don’t think I ever met this person. The note written in her shaky cursive meant more to me because I knew her and liked seeing something she had touched. Those items that must have been important to somebody once, went back into the box and stacked with the other boxes in my storage room. This got me thinking about all of the other things in my house that came from people who have since passed on. What will happen to all this stuff after me? What is the point of boxes of things tucked away taking up space? I don’t see how that honors or remembers anyone. My own grandmother made me several blankets as I grew up. I have the purple one from when I was ten and shared with her my favorite color was purple. She made me other purple things that year, but the blanket is what survived. There is the peach one she sent me off to college with because my new comforter was peach. Then there is the blue one she made when I got married and the new couch my husband and I picked out had blue strips on it. These blankets are kept out and get used. My kids got to meet their great grandmother and still remember her. I don’t think they remember her the person so much as see these blankets and remember she was once part of their lives. I hope they never end up in a box in some strangers basement. When all the people who knew her are gone, the blankets need to go, too. I crochet blankets now and have made my children each one. I hope they use them and someday their kids enjoy them as well. Things should be enjoyed and not boxed up in the basement. That’s how I like to remember people. Besides, I have enough boxes taking up space of my own stuff I can’t seem to part with. I mean how can I throw out that apron I painted when I was a Brownie?

2/4

the sound of the birds
hidden in melancholy
only calls pierce through

2/5

sunny side of lake
crackling sound of melting ice
captured water freed

2/7

morning gathering
just stopping for a quick drink
before flying off

2/9

sky blanket covers
as the flakes begin to fall
follow the trail home

2/10

trees covered in white
winter’s frosting greets today
quiet, snowy walk