Yesterday I pulled out a jar of vitamins. The expiration date was November 2006. I wondered whether the nutritional punch was still held captive in the bottle or had leaked into the cupboard, fortifying the pressed board over the last six years.

 

I tossed them.

 

Last week I tried to make room in the fridge for our new boarders. I extracted salad dressings, mayo and mustard that were fourteen years old... in dog time. Why would I smear old condiments on crisp lettuce or fragrant whole wheat?

 

Crusty items seem to hang around way past their prime, cluttering the space I should keep clear for tastier fare. Why is it hard to let go? They no longer serve us.

 

A dear uncle in his eighties and I were chatting recently. He could not remember the details of what he wanted to tell me, and felt embarrassed. I sometimes wonder if the forgetfulness of old age is actually a blessing. Some of the clutter in our brains is outdated too. Do we really need to be concerned with our second cousin's neighbor's daughter's dog? The absence of such trivia makes airy room for the more current and genteel concerns of the wise. 

 

A friend mentioned that her husband no longer speaks with his brother. It is especially painful because the brother has cancer, and they cannot cross the breach between them. I asked what began the disconnect.