...They have passed, like rain on the mountain.

Sometimes I hold on to strange things. But the reasons are not so strange. There's usually a memory or a thought attached to the things I collect.

I was moving somethings around in my room today (instead of packing) when I looked at something that I hadn't looked at in a long time. It's proudly displayed, I didn't have to dig to find it. I just had to look. Granted, there is a lot of clutter on my desk right now, and there normally is, but it was right there. 

There is a clear vase. I've had it in my room for years, at least 7. Sometimes I wonder if Mom ever misses it. 

There is blue and silver ribbon, once glittery and now dusty, but if blown on you can see the sparkles again. 

There is a bouquet of dried white flowers, now an antiqued tan color. 

I wonder if my cousin knows that I still have the bouquet I carried in her wedding.

It's still beautiful, even when dead. 

I remember tying it to one of the posts of my bed with yarn and hanging it upside down, Laura-Ingalls-Wilder-style. I waited until I thought it had sufficiently dried. Then I stole one of Mom's vases, and put it on my dresser. Now it's on my desk, but I can still look at it and remember my cousin's wedding. 

I wonder if she has her bouquet? Maybe I should ask her sometime. 

When I was moving things I noticed that somewhere along these flowers' journey the middle flower had been decapitated. It's head was resting precariously on the pillow ribbon. I wondered if it was even worth it, but I picked up the flower and gently placed it back on its pillow of babies breath. For a moment I contemplated just throwing it away. 

I stood there and stared at it for a minute, trying to decide. 

In the end, I turned the vase a little, so that the ribbon was more proudly displayed and I let it "live" another day. Maybe I'll throw it away someday. 

I doubt I will. 

"What to make of a diminished thing?" [Robert Frost, The Oven Bird]