Some folks keep their loved ones’ ashes on the mantel for generations, while others resort to taxidermy when a beloved pet departs this earthly plane. As for me, I believe in rapid burial for my organic friends, but I must confess I have had the left-behinds of my long-defunct sewing machine sitting on a shelf for lo, these many years. The other day I finally asked myself why.

Sentimental attachment is as natural to me as breathing. I have dolls on my shelf that I played with as a child. On one of my treasure shelves I have locks of baby hair from my two boys, from my sisters and me, and from my father and his two sisters. I save letters and Christmas cards. In my safe I keep a bundle of letters written to me by my mother over a period of many years, and to be able to take these letters out and reread them gives me a tangible link to her. Her choice of words, her opinion about certain issues, her loopy script, all create an effect where she is practically right there in the room with me.

As a child, I collected marbles, shells, leaves, knickknacks from souvenir shops, discarded cicada shells, acorns, walnut shells, dolls, chunks of used Christmas ribbon, empty soup cans. One time, I saved a rotten egg, hiding it in my dresser drawer until the whole house could find it by following their respective noses. And let us not forget the worst T-shirt in the world: The Dragster. It was ragged, stained, and had a picture of a cartoon drag-racer driven by some wild-eyed creature with enormous teeth and eyes. One day, while I was at school, my enterprising mother took that T-shirt and tore it up for cleaning rags. After I got home, and the noise had died down, I searched out every single scrap of that shirt, and sewed them together with bright green thread.

So, like everyone else in my species, I tend to keep things that other people see no need for. It is my august opinion that most every counter-productive thing we do harks back to our animal brain, to a time in our long pre-history when one false step would lead right into the leopard’s jaws. In this case, things thrown away—bones, scraps of hide, offal, anything that could be used as a tool or a weapon—would be things that could never be used, and replacements were not to be found down at the corner store.

So, yes, I keep things. But not everything, and the other day I moved that old sewing machine into the category of things to discard. If I were to get really metaphysical about it, I would say that the true essence of my beloved machine is long gone, and the bones are taking up space in my environment. So what did I do but shroud those bones in strong black plastic (I was never much for the open casket thing) and lay them very gently in the bottom of my outdoor garbage can. That machine and I had many adventures together, and a memory and a smile are no further away than a set of curtains that I used it to make.