In Other Words with Dave

I have a little red stapler on my desk, tucked neatly under my Apple display. I rarely use it; I can’t remember the last time I stapled anything. Swingline manufactured it, and it has no significant value.

How do I know this is my stapler? On the tail end of the stapler (as opposed to the business end), there’s a handwritten “D.P. Miller” inscribed in faded black permanent marker. My mom wrote my name on this small piece of office equipment when she sent me off to college.

I can picture her putting together a little homework kit for me—a ruler, pencils, a sharpener, an eraser, and a stapler—yes, he will need that. I’m not sure why she put my name on it, but I appreciate the act forty-plus years later.

I remember my mom being a Cub Scout den mother, taking me to art classes across town, and cooking dinner for the family almost every night. She was a good cook, except for that one casserole with raisins (I still carry that memory).

I don’t get to send her flowers on Mother’s Day anymore, and it’s been years since I’ve been able to pick up the phone to call her. But I do get to enjoy memories and keepsakes from our time together. Her unique handwriting on this little piece of personal history reminds me of how much I was cared for. What a wonderful mom she was. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

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