Grandma worried about me.
She had a china cabinet stacked with teetering towers of coffee mugs from places she'd visited. My brother had a bulletin board filled with pins about politics, bands, or silly sayings. My mom even had a display of thimbles from different states.
I collected diddlysquat.
Grandma decided I was to collect spoons.
It soon became clear to me that these spoons weren't used for cooking or eating or anything else. They had no soul. They were made to sell.
So my well-intentioned Grandma went on her trips and brought me back spoons. One with a hula girl. One with the Statue of Liberty. Spoons.
I preferred money.
Only after I realized that it could be seen as a detriment did I discover I did collect something. I had a little tin of coins people gave me from their travels. A peso. A Canadian penny. A buffalo nickel. I wondered about all the people who had held them and what purchase had caused them to part ways.
My coins had soul.
But by the time I realized I did collect something, Grandma was too invested in the spoons.
Now, I don't collect coins.
But I still collect stories.