... my mother and aunts pressed upon me modest objects that had belonged to their parents, I would take them, sometimes reluctantly. Among these well-worn things were a mortar and pestle, a chipped vase, a box with broken lock. I even took the feather quilt my grandmother Molly had brought from Europe, which I eventually threw away. When my husband gave me an huipil from Mexico I kept it. I also kept my maroon plaid wool baby blanket. Now years later there’s almost no one who knows the history of these things, which will eventually find new homes or be destroyed, unlocked, freed, without history. Some might become finds for rummagers in thrift shops. Now they sometimes weigh me down. After talking about these mementos of the past, as Melissa videotaped, they grew lighter, and I was ready to let them go. Remembering them I forget them.