The Discarder

- "IX" - "X" - "XI"

- "Q" - "J" - "10"

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The Discarder sat on a low stool in her workshop, humming a tune that sounded like a sleepy bumblebee. Sunlight streamed through a large, round window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Before her was a mountain of objects—not junk, but things that had finished their jobs. There was a gear from a clock that had ticked its last tock, a perfectly smooth stone that had been skipped across a pond exactly once, and a key for a lock that no longer existed. Her workshop was tidy, with mostly empty shelves lining the walls, making the pile on the floor seem like a temporary visitor.

She picked up a single, brilliant red autumn leaf. She turned it over in her palm, tracing its veins with her finger. “You were a wonderful blanket for a sleeping seed,” she whispered to it. Then, with a small, fond smile, she dropped it into the worn leather satchel by her side. The satchel didn't bulge. It didn’t get heavier. It simply accepted the leaf. Next, she picked up a chipped teacup. “You held so much warmth,” she said, and placed it gently into the satchel’s opening. It vanished without a sound. One by one, she considered each object, gave it a quiet word of thanks, and let it go. This was not cleaning. It was a ceremony of happy endings.

Years ago, when she was a small girl with pockets always full of treasures, she played a game with her grandmother called Hilltop King. The goal was to be the first to carry a special flag to the top of the tallest hill in the valley. The path was steep and winding. On her first try, the girl loaded her pockets with her favorite things: a sparkling piece of quartz, a bird’s feather, a handful of shiny acorns, and a tiny whistle carved from wood. They were all so wonderful, she couldn't imagine leaving any of them behind. But the weight slowed her down. The quartz dug into her hip, and she kept stopping to make sure the feather wasn't bent.

Her grandmother, whose own pockets were empty, reached the top with ease. She found the girl halfway up the path, sitting on a rock and looking sadly at her heavy collection. “Some things are lovely to hold for a moment,” her grandmother said, her voice as soft as moss, “but a burden to carry for a mile.” She pointed to the heavy, beautiful quartz. “That one is very bright. But is its job to be bright in your pocket, or bright in the sunshine on the path?” The girl thought about it. Carefully, she placed the quartz on a stump where the sun made it glitter. She left the acorns for a squirrel. Her pockets felt strangely light. On her next try, she ran up the hill, feeling fast and free, and won the game easily.