And so the story goes, that once upon a time, when my mother was only a little girl, she returned home one day to find her father had thrown out nearly all of her stuff, as they were soon to move house. This is the tale that is told when we ask why she never throws anything out. Why my mother so tightly holds onto every object that passes to her hand. From our kin’s childish scribbles to a sun faded, eleven year old newspaper. My late grandmothers red rain coat, the pretty wrapping paper and its bow from a Christmas present, a penny dated 1987 and every sea shell picked up and pocketed is kept. Stored everywhere and anywhere around our family home, the clutter is a comfort and a curse.

As I look at my own character, it is clear that my mother’s idiosyncrasy is just one of many that she has passed onto me. I am also cursed, treasuring objects that have no other use but to comfort me with memories.