I Couldn’t Throw Away the Broken Crayon

Dear Delyara, I found it under the couch while vacuuming and was about to toss it when I suddenly saw my daughter at three years old, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor making a family portrait where I had purple hair and everyone had five fingers on one hand and six on the other. I stood there holding that crayon like it was evidence in a trial. Then I put it in the junk drawer. I know that makes no sense. Or maybe it makes perfect sense. Because motherhood has turned me into a woman who can throw away expired yogurt, dead batteries, and old birthday cards without blinking, but give me one small object with childhood trapped inside it and I lose all reason. It wasn’t about the crayon. It was about time. It always is.