05/14/2023
On Saturday, I went to an estate sale. I quickly found out the house belonged to my now-96-year-old freshman homeroom teacher. I introduced myself to his daughter, and she showed me these scissors. They were her grandmother’s “pizza scissors” and we shared delight over its bottle opener and mini screwdriver functions. She told me I could have them, and I told her I would always honor her grandmother’s scissors and keep them safe. ✂️ 🍕 💗
This mini-sacred encounter over an ordinary yet beloved object reminded me of one of my favorite poems about grief. I’m sharing it here for anyone grieving a mother figure today.
When my mother died
she left very little: old clothes,
modest furniture, dishes, some
change, and that was about it.
Except for the stapler. I found it
in a drawer stuffed with old bills
and bank statements. Right off
I noticed how easily it penetrated
stacks of paper, leaving no bruise
on the heel of my hand.
It worked so well I brought it home,
along with a box of staples, from
which only a few of the original 5000
were missing. The trick is remembering
how to load it—it takes me several minutes
to figure it out each time, but I persist until
Oh yes, that's it! Somewhere in all this
my mother is spread out and floating
like a mist so fine it can't be seen,
an idea of wafting, the opposite of stapler.
"The Stapler" by Ron Padgett, from How to be Perfect. © Coffee House Press, 2007
