Every time I take one of these bowls out of my cupboard to use, I’m conscious of the fact they were my Mother’s.

I used the red one today to make waffles. While washing it, the thought struck me of how many times she had handled that same bowl. After using it, she washed and dried it, then returned it to its place on the shelf, stacked along with the others in the set. The little blue one was for whipping the cream that came from Dad’s milk cows, always served atop some fabulous dessert or pie made using the fresh fruits from his orchard. The red one was used for the family salad. The mismatched, large blue one has replaced the original green that broke along the way. The yellow held the delicious potato salad she made for family “get-togethers,” using her crisp, home-canned sweet pickles (made from the cucumbers in Dad’s garden). Not a sweet pickle on earth matched that recipe.

How can so many memories be connected to four ancient bowls? There will come a time when someone in my family may–or may not–end up with them. They will know they belonged to Grandma–or great Grandma. But they won’t have any of the memories that make them special.

Our memories are self-contained. They belong to us–and only us Treasure and hold on tight to the good ones, the precious ones. Find a broom and take a good sweeping to the not-so-good. Remove them. Don’t allow them to take up space within your mind and your soul.