My Confession.

I save too much.

Old scrappy letters.

Half written reminders.

Chicken scratch on folded over post-it notes that have lost their sticky backside.

I save all my old journals.

Photos of people I no longer see or care about.

I save tools that I don’t know the name of, all the left-over clutter that Curt left behind.

I might need it some day, I tell myself.

Maybe it will keep me from spending more money, I offer.

I save clothes that remind me of something or someone that I’m not ready to let go of.

I save voicemails and birthday cards.

I save crafty slips of paper and broken jewelry because you never know when you might get the urge to make stuff.

I save students’ writing from years prior.

I save every single screw and nail that I find because I never seem to have the right kind when I actually need it.

I save every ounce of cardboard and paper and plastic, and when my recycling overflows, I drive it somewhere to drop off, like a mom in a school carpool line.

I save breath mints.

I save pens.

My car is a pen graveyard.

I save time.

I save money.

I grew up learning I had to “be saved”.

It’s the saving I’m good at.

Too good at.

But letting go?

I am still learning.