In the Romania of my childhood, nothing was thrown away too quickly, especially hope.
We kept dried bread because it could be softened in tea or, on better days, milk, and turned into a meal. We kept wrapping paper because it could be folded carefully and used again several more times. Why throw it away, really? Perfectly good paper.
We kept old clothes too. Clothes did not become old; children simply grew. A waistband could be let out. Sleeves adjusted. A dress worn one more winter.
We kept letters, notebooks, books, ribbons, buttons in old tins, jars that once held something else. We kept things because things had value, and because replacing them was never guaranteed.
We kept our families close because you never quite knew how long people would remain beside you. Also, despite everything, we genuinely liked each other. Most of the time.
And quietly, stubbornly, we kept dreams alive.
We kept hope present.
We kept wishes.
I still do...
