Things I own that I don’t necessarily want anymore, but have trouble letting go.

Serious offers only. No scams. Give me your best offer and I will let you know if I’m ready to let go.

Valise: Owned by my grandmother in 1953
 Details: Stickers with her name and address from the apartment that my grandfather lived in all 83 years he lived in New York City. A sticker that says “HAWAII” is blue and worn, but still in tact.
 The travel studs attached at the handle have been ripped off by my negligence. I wish I still had them to fantasize about my grandparents’ vacations together. The valise is blue, or an off teal, or maybe it was once green but aged into this avocado leather skin. The clasps work fine, but I don’t have the key to lock it closed. My grandfather gave this to me when I went to college after I said I needed to find a big suitcase. He exclaimed: take the valise! I told him without looking at it that I should probably buy my own bag. He responded. “But what about Europe?” I agreed. I took it. I never went to Europe, but the valise seemed satisfying enough.

Yes, it is moldy inside and every time I open it, I look at all the clothes I shoved in that I never wear because the weather isn’t warm enough; because they remind me of something I will never want to be; because they belonged to someone else and remind me too much of that person.

Suzuki Gold Harmonica in the Key of D:
 I stole this from the bookshelf in my father’s old apartment. I took it because I thought that I would feel a connection to him if I could also play the harmonica. This one was on the shelf anyway—and I know that he keeps all the harmonicas he cares about in a paperbag from a fish market in Cape Cod. I didn’t how beautiful it was. As the years went by, I was glad that I had the harmonica instead of him. I wondered how he could have owned something so pleasing. Knowing my father, he probably stole it himself.

I don't know how to play, but i pretend to. I remember sitting in the field behind our house with my friend Lulu and told her that if she breathed into it, it would sound good. I lent it to her for a while. Then i lost it for half a year and I found it again. I love the sound so much, but have no reason to to play.

“Prayers and Meditations Pamphlet” from the Riverside Memorial Chapel: “Yizkor elohim nishmas avee mori (name) shehalach l’olamo, bavoor sheani noder tzedaka baado, bischar zeh, y’hay nafsho tzerurah bitzrov hachayim im nishmos Avraham, Yitzchak, v’Yaakoy, Sarah, Rivka, Rachel, v’Leah, v’im shear tzadikim v’tzid kaniyos she b’gan eden, v’nomar ah’main” (15). My brother and I waited on line for the boat and saw the hearse pull in. “I think that’s him,” my brother said. We went over and looked inside. When we got back in line, three old women stood behind us. One of them saw the hearse and said “Oh, that’s an omen, I don’t think we should be getting on this boat.” I turned around and told her she had no idea what she was talking about, who could possibly be inside there, she had no idea how amazing that person may have been. She turned around to her friends and said “it looks like I got myself in trouble.” I didn’t care how old she was, I wanted to sock her.

This has been in my pocket for the past 8 months. I can’t believe it’s already been 8 months.

Two Silk Floral Blouses and a Ring size 7 (I think. My hands are very small and this fits on my ring and middle finger): Certain people tell me that I look just like my mother. I always wonder why I can’t look like myself. Why do they have to drag my mother into this. I feel most like my mother when I wear these blouses that were once hers. I feel like they are an ancient relic—never to give away, only to keep. i think if I gave these away, she wouldn’t be angry, but upset that I didn’t want to connect with her in this way. Upset in a way that is more than just not appreciating a gift— it’s not true—I think they are very beautiful. However, as Marie Kondo righteously asks “Does it spark joy?” No, because being beautiful isn’t as important to me anymore, because I don’t want to look at myself in the mirror and be reminded of how much I look like my mother. I do not want to add to the patriarchal narrative of villianizing the mother figure and depicting the father as the heroic figure. Neither symbol is actually true. It’s not that I hate my mother or think she is ugly or anything like that. But her and I are different women. She raised me and her mother raised her: we could never be the same. It’s complicated, as many mother daughter relationships go. There was a point in my life when I wanted to be like her and I think that was the most endearing part of our relationship. She gave the ring to me for my 16th birthday. I kept it because I thought it was a milestone. I don’t want it anymore.

Mahogany Henna natural hair dye. I bought it 4oz and used a bit of it so I’d say it’s around 2.7 oz now: MY HAIR IS NOT RED THIS IS NOT WHO I AM GET THIS OFF OF ME WHERE AM I WHO HAS MY HEAD THE REAL ONE THIS STAINS BEWARE IF YOU DONT WANT YOUR HAIR TO BE ANOTHER COLOR FOR OVER A YEAR YOU FORGET WHO YOU ARE WITHOUT IT NOT ONLY DOES THIS STUFF STAIN BUT YOU CANNOT PUT REGULAR DYE ON YOUR HAIR ONCE YOU HAVE HENNAD YOUR HAIR BECAUSE IT WILL burn your hair OFF. IT TAKES YEARS TO GROW OUT. EVERY NIGHT IN AUGUST I COATED MY HAIR IN OLIVE OIL AND SERANE WRAP. I PUT LEMON JUICE ON MY HEAD AND IT STEEPED INTO MY THROAT. PEOPLE ONLY KNEW ME FOR WHO I WASN'T. OR MAYBE THIS IS WHO I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN.

I would recommend this if you are looking for a refreshing change in your appearance, something that compliments you, something that makes you feel like you have control over your body because you do—it’s your body, no one else’s. It’s all you, baby.

Paper Fox Mask by Yuko Uchida: I went to her show in an art gallery by Union Square with a friend and her dad. Everyone at the show was at least 50 years old, except for me and my friend. She passed these around to all of us and we watched her performance with our fox eyes. When the performance ended, we all took our masks off and the three of us went to dinner. I lied about my age to get a drink and my friend's dad told me happy birthday. We left the restaurant and I realized I had lost an earring. I went back into the restaurant and couldn't find it. I accepted the loss maybe too remorsefully because my friend and her father insisted on going back to the gallery and texting Yuko to look around. We didn't find it and I took the subway home thinking about how this guy I had been seeing had once mentioned how he loved these earrings. I thought about him the rest of the night. I thought about him and that I was beginning to think I could love him or at least care about him in a way that felt like more than I had before. I never told him this. Later in the winter he told me he cared about me and he wanted me in his life. I was in awe and afraid. I didn't believe him. I wanted to. Maybe it was just the earrings that made me want to. I found the lost earring in my bag the next morning. It must have fallen off my ear and into my bag when I took the mask off.

/ Things_I_Own