This piece of wrinkled paper with curves and lines in crayon has no home, but it has my child’s name, and I cherish it. This small pink star? A button whose dress has forgotten it, so it waits patiently to be reunited with purple cordoroy. Coupons for food I’ll never buy compete with receipts from things we have already consumed.

Clutter in my kitchen annoys me, the smooth lines of the countertops interrupted by stray papers and trinkets I must not only keep, but keep handy. The papers multiply as if by magic, the pile growing deeper. I curse its presence, filtering through each item, but nothing makes its way to the garbage—I attach too much meaning to the meaningless.