Husband comes home from his mother's, clutching an old wooden wall lamp with a very dated water stained shade. I make a disparaging remark to which he replies: "I made this in woodshop," and he turns the lamp this way and that studying the work of his long ago self.
I think of all the things that I hang onto solely for sentimental reasons, things that I am fond of for nothing more than nostalgia, and I wonder, yet again, if I will ever learn to keep my big stupid mouth closed.