Chuck Frank
When my mom passed away 17 years ago, my siblings and I and took turns choosing items of sentimental value in her apartment. There was a large ceramic figure of a mounted St. George that ruled over the living room; a clock ringed with 12 framed avian images; a pair of black wooden shoes with marble inlays, which my wife Debbie and I claimed.
That left 50 bags for Goodwill and the contents of her desk drawers: Scratch paper, pens that skipped, paper clips, an old stapler and a plastic box filled with rubber bands.
As an afterthought, I took the box with rubber bands. Those always seem to come in handy.
The wooden shoes rest quietly in a closet now, still eye-catching but with nowhere to go. I see them every once in a while when I’m looking for something I’ve misplaced.
On the other hand, the box of rubber bands, with its tattered label in my mom’s handwriting, is a desktop companion. I’m in and out of it regularly, depositing new rubber bands or looking for a good fit for a loose cord or a deck of cards. I think about my mom – and sometimes even have ethereal conversations with her – every time I open that box. It acts as a catalyst, and in a strange but comforting way, those rubber loops keep us connected.