My mother kept
in an orderly fashion
in her cupboards
tin boxes of
all shapes and sizes.
Most were empty.
Some filled with teabags
and “sweet stuff.”
She was not a collector,
not of anything,
except regrets, and trespasses
against her.
Yet these tin boxes
became a collection
in spite of her tendencies to
separate herself from the
clutter I embrace.

My favorite was
a large round beige tin
with a leather like texture.
“Mother” kept the napkins and
plastic forks in it for the
backyard barbecues.
As a small girl,
I used to love to take
it down from the top
of the basement closet
and swipe it with my
fingers so that it would
be presentable to put
on the table, the hairs
of dust tickling my nose
stifling the laughter I
wanted to embrace at the idea that
perhaps my mother’s housekeeping
wasn’t as perfect as she perceived.

When my mother's mind
left, and we put her
someplace a little less
cozy than her home,
I was left with the task of
cleaning out 30 some years
of her life.
Fueled by a feeling
of alarming nonchalance
I put most of the tins,
including the “leather” one
on the sidewalk in
sturdy cardboard boxes
for the neighbors to
claim as treasure
or for the trash men to take away.
With a vagabond vibrancy
they were gone in a flash.
I kept two,
the one she
stored Lipton teabags in
and the one she kept cookies in.
They are dented and a bit
rusty, attributes absorbed
from aging, just like my
Mom,
still they
perch precariously on the ledge
of my stove regally;
stiff and straight
empty and barren, just
like “mother” sits in
a place less cozy than her home.

11/08/2014

Author's Note: Note: Since I wrote this my mother has passed. She is gone almost three years now. I still have the tea tin. The cookie tin disappeared when I moved but the tea tin sits prominently on my stove.

Posted on 11/08/2014
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