Marilyn Kochman

When my mother died, the only object I wanted from her assisted living apartment was a small, mahogany nightstand. Before that, for over half a century, it stood guard on my father’s side of the bed in my parents’ Northeast Philadelphia, ranch-style home.

I did not hesitate for a moment when my siblings asked if I’d be interested in becoming the next owner. After hauling the nightstand 40 miles to my apartment, I placed the small piece of furniture - - and the shell-studded lamp that she loved - - in the entranceway. Now, whenever I walk into my home, I’m awash with bittersweet feelings.

As a child, I’d often wander into my parents’ bedroom, sit at the edge of the bed, and stare at the nightstand’s two drawers, wondering what secrets they stored. Slowly, stealthily, I’d pull open the top drawer. It was always a mess with clutter: a yellowing address book, a crinkled black-and-white Polaroid photo, a half-eaten package of mint lifesavers.

Like my parents, I have a penchant for clutter, and whenever I don’t know where to store something, into one of the drawers it goes: a show schedule from the 1990 Telluride Film Festival; a Lifetime Pass to the National Parks; and a faded, red-orange wallet I once gave my mother, and don’t have the heart to give away.

My little mahogany nightstand is, however, so much more than a repository for random items. Today, whenever I pull open one of the drawers, I hear a familiar and heart-warming sound. It is the sound of wood scraping wood, the sound of my parents, the sound of lives that are no longer.