I wish my mother had collected
gold Krugerrands
instead of Precious Moments Figurines
or Apple stock
instead of Hallmark Christmas Ornaments.

She’s been gone for six years,
but the attic is still brimming
with all the items a Boomer thought
would be worth money one day:
Beanie Babies in individual plastic cylinders,
collector plates of Julie Andrews movie characters
from the Franklin Mint,
TV guides in plastic covers commemorating 
the last episodes of M*A*S*H and Seinfeld.

I look at the curio cabinet,
peer at the rows of figurines:
chubby-cheeked German children
skipping to school 
or climbing up trees.
My parents’ generation worshipped Hummels,
saw them as icons of increasing value.
They don’t seem to understand
those of us born after 1960 don’t care.

I turn my head,
see my father eyeing me like a sentinel.
He knows what I want to do
but will not allow it.
Eyes locked in silent combat,
I inform him telepathically
he won this battle,
but 48 hours after his pulse stops,
these walls will ring
with the sound of shattering porcelain.
                        

My aunt gave me this sweater,
royal blue cable-knit English wool
for my seventeenth birthday.
Thirty-four years later,
I still wear it on the bitterest 
of winter days.

We are both still functional
but visibly scarred.
In my 20’s, there was a slit in the back.
My mother sewed it closed.
In my 30’s, the elbows wore out.
My mother sewed on patches.
In my 40’s, the sleeves started to fray.
My mother was gone by then,
so my wife made the repairs.

I tell her after death
my ghost will be wearing it.
When she reaches the afterlife,
the vibrant blue color
will make me easy to find.
She jokes we’re not going to the same place
and hell will be too hot for wool.