Jelly jars and diapers

I'm sorting through someone elses memories.
The fabrics tumble out of bags and I hold my breath hoping for perfection but remnants of mousy inhabitants sprinkle the floor and stain the ornate white brocade. Multicolored quilts with seams splitting, tiny ancient diapers, heavy heavy rough cotton sheets, a pale blue blanket with a torn taffeta border, squares and bolts of bright and faded cloth folded haphazardly and lain in a box advertising old tyme whiskey. I have such a hard time giving it away. Even the yellowing once white curtains with fuzzy little balls fluffing off the perimeter. I would never use these by choice. But a little voice in my head, not my own by the way- I think its Cynnie- says, "hmm, those might come in handy somewhere down the road..." or "good girl, I'm glad you're keeping that one..." and I throw them into the keep pile along with the ugly but serviceable lamps, the toy cars J would hate for me to give away, the (two) old time radios, the boxes of old peanut butter and jam jars that I may use to can my garden overflow this fall. You never know what you may use, what you might need in a year or two on an island without a department store, without a Home Depot, without a twenty four hour supermarket.
I hear you Cynnie, I hear you, but the 150 or so empty boxes (Christmas, birthdays, thank you gifts...) had to go to make room for all the stuff that I think is important and may one day be sorted through and sorted out by some young thing who doesn't understand the value of early 2000's jeans with ripped knees or an industrial sewing machine that once took the fabric you saved in a box in the attic and made it new.