Things

I wandered around Mom’s apartment a lot today, looking over objects in every room that I remember from toddlerhood. I thought I should want something. My husband thought I should want something. I only chose a few of Dad’s old things to give to my son.

I wanted nothing, not even the portrait she’d had painted of us. I know it’s a good likeness, but my husband doesn’t think so.

The only thing I could think to want for myself was her old green fountain pen, that she’d always kept filled with green ink. That was her signature color — green ink. She had a special way of writing her capital M’s, in three parts. I never was able to copy that. Instead, my writing was a bit more like Dad’s. And neither of them wrote as much as I do.