The Half-Used Toothpick

Hi my friend,

I never imagined
that I would be the kind of person
who wouldn’t throw a toothpick out…
simply because it has my mother’s
red lipstick on.

But here I am.

Holding on 
to the smallest things
as if they are evidence.

Evidence 
that she was real.
That she had a body.
A human presence
in this world.

Because when she died,
the world didn’t just lose a person.
It lost the sound of her slippers.
Her laughter… And even her 
rumbling snores…

Now, all that’s left of her
are her things.

So when I open one of her handbags
and a little toothpick tumbles out,
I don’t throw it in the bin.

I pick it up
and place it back
exactly where it belongs.
Where my mother kept it.
In that tiny pocket
inside her purse.

A little wooden treasure
saved for a rainy day.

She used to collect them
everywhere she went.

Just in case 
she might need one…
someday.

And often she did.

Not only she… but her friends
and her vast social 
circle too.

Sometimes she even shared
the only one she had between 
the people closest to her.

Gross, I know.
But also sweet.

She always seemed so pleased
when someone asked for it.
As if she had been preparing
for that exact moment
all along.

My mother
and her half-used toothpicks
went hand in hand.

Such a small, strange habit.
But it belonged.

So now, when I see one
hiding in her purse,
I leave it there.

And I know 
she would be surprised
that I’m still keeping something 
that wasn’t meant to last.

But it reminds me
 of my mom.

This small, peculiar thing
that was so undeniably
hers.


With love,
Elina

Imagery / My mother, collecting joy, 1960s