I have a tendency to hoard tiny objects. I've been that way for as long as I remember. Besides making dusting challenging it is a characteristic of mine I appreciate. Every corner of my house is inhabited by knickknacks in varied shapes and colors. Even minimalism and Marie Kondo hypes did not phase my love for collecting. Ultimately, when I hold any of my precious objects and ask myself: "does this spark joy?"—consistently, the answer is: "yes".

One could call them 'paraphernalia', I call them 'tokens of affection'. The dried flowers on the window seal remind me of an invigorating spring day; the sea shells by the entrance are mementos of a walk by the beach with a dear friend...

The first objects I ever collected were hotel miniature toiletries (true story). It all started when I was about four years old. I loved (and to be honest, still do) tiny things. There is something so endearing about miniatures. My dream was to live in a tiny house, with tiny pets and tiny tea cups. It comes as no surprise then that small-scale toiletry was right up my alley.

Growing up my father was often away for work. The separation was hard on both of us, so we came up with a system of little reminders of love to sustain our relationship. Every time he came back from a trip he presented me with the wonderful toiletries he collected along the way. I kept my treasures safely guarded in a floral pattern box under my bathroom sink.

Many of my most cherished childhood memories with my dad involve the toiletries he brought me. Scrubbing his arm tattoo with little soaps in vain attempts at removing them. Going through my treasure box categorizing the little bottles by scent or place of origin, dreaming of the day when I would be the one traveling and collecting tokens of affection around the world,

As I look around me now I realize my dream has come true.

The Dragon Hill Lodge is a dingy place with the usual amenities. The instant coffees taste, as usual, like a mixture of earth and seawater. The toothbrush I am afraid to touch, I brought my own instead. But the little serving of shampoo in the unlabeled bottle was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

Standing there in the grimy shower, lukewarm water spitting out and trickling down my shivering sides, I open the bottle and am transported to bliss. The sweet fragrance of peonies and orange blossoms fills my nostrils and overwhelms me. One squirt and the bottle is empty, but that one squirt carries eternity within it. As my fingers knead my hair and the cool suds build up, the intoxication builds to breaking. The light drizzles of steam bathe me in sweet-smelling glory.

Best shower ever. I am never using Pantene again.

In my house we had a drawer of little soaps

and shampoos lined on the bathtub rim.

My mother never met a hotel she didn't ransack.

She stopped at towels now,

Scared of retribution,

Hotels aren't like they used to be,

They check now,

Run her credit card.

See what was gone.

No, no more robes for mom.

But little trinkets,

Scraps for a quick wash

Those were gobbled up into suitcases

Lying on their bellies like stuffed ticks as she pushed mints into every corner.

Our home was individually wrapped,

Ranch and ketchup and soy sauce were

always sourced from tablespoon packets.

We ate with plastic forks,

Sometimes I'd bite them clean in half.

Yes, she filled up that home

The freebees became toothpicks and boxes,

Trash to all others, trash that piled

That house darked

Freebees covered the windows

The lights

Everything.

When it went dark I left.

I walked to the hotel down the road.

I stared at the shampoo on the wiped-clean counter

My mother always rinsed the bottles out with water

To get every last drop when they finally emptied.

I threw it away,

I threw them all away,

the shampoo, the conditioner, the body wash, the soap,

the shower cap, the toothbrush, the toothpaste,

the mints and chocolates, the plastic cups, even the bag for the ice,

all into the trash.

I stared at the boxes and plastics in the can.

I understood her a little.

Seems wasteful.

I pulled a plastic-covered mint from the trash.

It tasted like home.