I had a wad like this in my hands earlier.

I could leave little sticky notes for myself all over the house, particularly in the laundry room, on the washing machine door, and I would still forget some of the tissues I had stuffed deep into the pockets of every garment that had them when I dumped my clothes into the washer….

***

I can’t recall when my mother did not work full time. Even so, she always found a way for us to go on outings—for retail therapy, to the theater, the ballet, an occasional opera, or just lunch. And, invariably, no matter where we were, a moment would come where I’d sneeze, or my nose would start to run, and I’d quietly whine, “Mom…” and she would shake her head, roll her eyes, and reach into her purse for the tissues she always kept there, with a groan that was more amused than annoyed.

I’m sure she wondered how I could forget to bring some with me, as I had almost everything else I might need stuffed into my bag, including a few items I might never need.

But, purely unintentionally, my mother’s packing extra tissues for her absentminded daughter became a running gag between the two of us—like the fact that she refused to sit across from me at our kitchen table, or the table in any restaurant because, again, invariably, I would wind up kicking her in the shins at some point during the meal.

***

Some years after she died, I started keeping a box of tissues in almost every room in the house. By this time I was married, and the need to have quick access to sneeze catchers and nose wipers became a necessity for both of us. By this time, my purse was also prepared with a wad of tissues and a couple of clean handkerchiefs as back-up in case I ran out of disposables. For sure, Mom would have been pleased.

But as I got older, and I bought more garments with pockets, I realized the value of stuffing those pockets with tissues so one would always be within grabbing distance. But that wasn’t all. I also got into the habit of doing what I used to see so many elderly ladies do when I was growing up—stuffing a handkerchief or couple of tissues into a shirtsleeve.

I am a bit ashamed for all the times I laughed at those ladies for doing it, especially now that I am them. But, oh, the convenience! Oh, the loveliness of having relief so close to the palms and fingers! Those ladies were surely onto something—like wearing pants with elastic waists….. But that’s a post for another time.

***

And so I find myself staring into the washer, and then dryer, at shreds and wads of perfectly clean tissues stuck to clothes and sheets and towels.

If my mother were alive I would tell her that I always have tissues in my purse now, and on my person when I’m at home. I would tell her that her reminders to be prepared have stuck. But I would also admit, with embarrassment, that I always forget to empty my pockets and shirtsleeves of them before doing the laundry, and that I can’t help but see her bemused face in every piece of tissue I find.