One Saturday afternoon, my friend and I meandered through a tag sale at local farm, perusing antiques and dusty nostalgia. I found a pitcher like the one my aunt poured from during childhood visits, two blue Ball jars just like the ones Ma used to store flour and sugar, and delicate embroidered doilies like the ones draped over the arms of chairs at my grandparent’s house.
I picked up a bell jar and carried it around until I realized my attention had slipped into the past. On my way to return the jar I spotted the Sacred Heart of Jesus in statue form, draped with an antique rosary. “You must be Catholic?” the owner asked, adding that it was the last of a very old collection. “No,” I said, just a collector of hearts.