I have countless memories of my mother opening our mail with a kitchen knife. It’s only natural, her anticipation in receiving packages. Amidst colorful yarn, or her growing collection of mushroom dishware, packages sometimes came with old friends’ addresses. The memories that stand out are usually of the last-- bundled with paper and familiar handwriting, spilling bottle caps. The story starts five years ago, when she was at dinner. Dark wood on a bar reflected the lighting above. Slow music played, and candlelight flickered from fake candles. My mom saw a bucket by the bar. It was colossal, dimly lit from stained-glass pendant lights and filled with bottle caps. She asked a lady if they gave them out. “I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with the bottlecaps, but I knew that I wanted to have a lot of them.” Scooping a bag from the bucket, her project began. The bag sat on a shelf in our laundry room, plump and jagged. Caps piled up from Izzies and hard cider. Inspired, friends and family from all over the world sent their spares, and soon we were receiving them in the mail. An envelope would arrive with three caps and a friend’s address on it, or a box filled with them. ”I worked on collecting the caps years before quarantine started, even before my wedding. Crazy. I only started gluing them down during Covid.” I remember her wedding vividly, as well as the bottlecaps she collected throughout the night. 

– Sophia D

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