Memories Impart Value

Along the way, I learned that memories impart value.

My uncle bequeathed me the contents of his home. As I packed china and depression glass and debated shipping furniture, my brother held out an item.

Is this the M&Ms dish?

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. I remembered its place by my grandfather’s recliner and the forbiddeness of snitching a chocolate morsel.

My brother remembered the too-loud clank of the glass lid when he was naughtier or perhaps braver than me.

I carefully packed the M&Ms dish, and later cried when another tried to claim it.

Look what I found.

This time my brother held out Rook cards, the same vintage as my parents’ cards.

The colored numbers brought back images of my parents playing Rook with their friends. Once, I got in trouble for peeking over shoulders and announcing a player’s hand. I felt like an adult when I was old enough to play Rook with my siblings.

My brother happily packed the Rook cards.

What made two objects—costing less than $20 each—priceless? The memories.

I wonder which objects my boys will eventually claim. (See Their Memories, Not Yours Here.)