“Look at that!” I motion to my son, gesturing towards the dilapidated chest-of-drawers on the side of the road. 

“Mom, why do you always like old things like that?”  He rolls his eyes.

“I don’t know. I guess I just like the idea of old things getting a second chance.”

He sighs, looking out of the window as we drive home. It’s bulk trash pick-up week. This always excites me since I don’t know what I might find. Yes, I am a junk whore. Not so much anymore, but it was great, cheap fun when I was in graduate school as a single mom of two little kids. During those days, bulk trash time meant walking around the neighborhood playing, what can we do with that? Sometimes it was an art project and other times, a project became meaningful, an article that we could restore and give to someone who might need it more than we did.

Gradually, the days of going to the grocery store on sample days and bulk trash turned into more mundane, less imaginative forays. We shopped and didn’t eat our way through the store. We bought affordable, inexpensive furniture.  The chipped ceramic mugs gave way to matching pieces.

However, this day, I was immediately struck with nostalgia when I viewed the warped side table on the curb.  I wanted some vestige of the past, a time before teen moodiness and his burgeoning understanding of how little I know.

“Oh, I should get that and paint it and use it for plants!” I cry out.

“Well, why don’t you stop and get it then?”  Again, the eye roll.

“No,” I say sadly, turning to him. “I don’t really need it and someone else might.”

He nods. Shrugs.  Returns to looking out the window.

*************************************************************************

::thud:: Bang! Bang! Bang!

The cacophony at the front door is amazing and I rush to see what is going on. I open the door to see my son standing there, panting with exertion.  He grins broadly.

“I got it for you!”  He sweeps his arm aside to show me the warped table. He had deliberately walked home by way of our route the previous day.  He carried that table home to me, huffing and puffing.  

“I know you really wanted it, Mom. So I got it for you. I know you’ll make it cool again.”

My eyes fill with tears at this unexpected sweetness from my adolescent son. His gesture stands out for me years later.

***********************************************************

And here's the telling point: I never restored that table. I left it as it was, as a reminder that life has its sweet moments. Sweet moments that need nothing more because they are perfect as they are.