I stare at the wall, the many small wooden cases, filled with spoons. Some are commemorative, others show the many travels the collector has been on, but my favorite is a plain spoon, dull patches are setting in, showing it’s age. My great-grandma gave it to me before my first family trip. She collected spoons and wanted me to start collecting them, and get her one whenever I went anywhere. So when she died we both had a very large collection. And each one I love dearly, they all have a memory of her with them. A small one with a bell on top, meant to be the liberty bell. Another a crown, from the Tower of London. One with a monk… I paise as I look at it. I don’t remember. I smile to myself, I guess that happens when you have so many. I look over the collection. I don’t want to pack them up, I don’t want to leave this place, an irrational fear tells me I’ll lose them, I guess that’s why I find myself putting my favorite, my first one in my pocket, so I know that one is safe. So I know that one will never be lost.