Have you ever have one of those moments where you’re just minding your business, rummaging around your kitchen for a container to store leftovers and you suddenly hear your mother’s voice in your head?
Not in a sentimental, misty-eyed kind of way. No, no – I mean in that classic Mom Tone, equal parts judgment and love, the kind that makes you sit up a little straighter and reevaluate your life choices.
Today it happened to me while I was elbow-deep in my Tupperware drawer. And by ‘drawer’, I mean the chaotic abyss of mismatched lids and bottomless containers I’ve been promising to organize for… let’s call it three years.
‘Good God, you’re still keeping these lids? What are you hoping to find – the missing containers in the afterlife?!‘
There it was. Plain as day.
And I swear I could almost smell her perfume, that faint mix of lavender and whatever cheap hairspray she used to keep her bouffant defying gravity. She was right, of course. She usually was, which was part of what made her so irritating in life and apparently in death.
At first, I laughed. Then, I started actually pulling everything out of the drawer. You know what I found? Twelve lids, four containers and a potato peeler I haven’t seen since 2019. The lids didn’t fit any of the containers. Not one. Not even close. I was hoarding literal trash.
And then it hit me: this wasn’t about the lids. It never was.
It was about all the crap – emotional and otherwise – I’ve been holding onto. Old regrets, petty grudges, that nagging voice that says you’re not good enough, you should be further along by now, you’re too weird, too messy, too much.
I’ve been keeping those dusty, mismatched pieces of my life in a metaphorical junk drawer because maybe someday I’ll need them. Maybe someday I’ll figure out where they belong.
‘Kid, let it go. Life’s too short, and apparently, so is the storage space in the afterlife.‘
So here’s my first message from beyond:
Clean out your junk drawer.
The real one, sure, but also the one in your heart, your head, your soul. Toss the things that no longer serve you. The lids that don’t fit. The stories you tell yourself that were never true.
And if you happen to hear your mom’s voice while you do it, tell her I said hi.
End note:
This is Messages from Beyond the Will, where my dearly departed folks occasionally drop some wisdom (and shade) from the other side. Stick around – apparently, they’ve got a lot to say.
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