I am forty-three years old. Why is it that my mother still feels it is her purpose in life to educate me?
She stands in front of the junk drawer in my kitchen, “There is no excuse for anyone to have a drawer like this in their house,” she says. With one finger, she rifles through the drawer, moving a pair of pliers closer to fifty peso bills for the water vendor that are piled to its left, sending loose screws rolling across the bottom of the drawer.
I reach around her to hand her the pair of scissors she seeks. Then, once again, I careen into the precipice of self-doubt. Surely, others less-perfect than my mother have drawers such as this one.
My qualms deteriorate as I readjust my thoughts to coincide with the actual world, but as I restate mentally and silently my oft-repeated mantra. “What the eyes don’t see doesn’t matter,” my mother, briskly and methodically, starts arranging the drawer.