Chuck Frank

When my mom passed away 17 years ago, my siblings and I and took turns choosing items of sentimental value in her apartment.  There was a large ceramic figure of a mounted St. George that ruled over the living room; a clock ringed with 12 framed avian images; a pair of black wooden shoes with marble inlays, which my wife Debbie and I claimed. 

That left 50 bags for Goodwill and the contents of her desk drawers: Scratch paper, pens that skipped, paper clips, an old stapler and a plastic box filled with rubber bands. 

As an afterthought, I took the box with rubber bands.  Those always seem to come in handy.

The wooden shoes rest quietly in a closet now, still eye-catching but with nowhere to go.  I see them every once in a while when I’m looking for something I’ve misplaced. 

On the other hand, the box of rubber bands, with its tattered label in my mom’s handwriting, is a desktop companion.  I’m in and out of it regularly, depositing new rubber bands or looking for a good fit for a loose cord or a deck of cards.  I think about my mom – and sometimes even have ethereal conversations with her – every time I open that box.  It acts as a catalyst, and in a strange but comforting way, those rubber loops keep us connected.

Editor’s Note: we are featuring Mother’s Day pieces by Mary Kelly, Judy Frohlich, Chuck Frank, Nell Minow, Robert Wallace, and Fred Nachman. Go to our homepage.