Snipping Memories

When the packaging fell away and I slipped into Her hand for the very first time, I became Her trusty sidekick. My shiny orange handle fit perfectly in Her grip. I could tell by the pressure in Her enthusiasm that we were a perfect pair. The name on my blade was Fiskars, but She gave me a name of my very own. She called me Snippy.

In the beginning, I was a general purpose tool. I opened Her packages, clipped magazine images to decorate Her walls, and destroyed Her break-up letters. I got into and out of moving boxes, opened the rings on cleaning supplies, snipped recipes when She learned to cook, and even helped decorate Her new world. I was always there, anytime She needed to open or shut a part of her life. My blades stayed ever true.

One day, we made Valentines. Then, wedding invitations. Eventually, baby announcements.

And then, She discovered her true joy: scrapbooking. We bonded as She snipped bits and bobs with my razor edge, lovingly placing photographs and memories for display. Scrapbooks were Her passion, and I contributed to every page. We documented life and family, capturing the special moments, the vacations, the holidays, and even the mundane times. Some pages featured artwork or poetry. No matter the subject, She always smiled when scrapbooking. The entire process of creation filled Her with winsome spirit. She was the best version of herself when she was making memories.

As the children grew, we taught them the joy of creation. We made collages and macaroni necklaces. Papier-mâché piñatas and solar system models. In a pinch, I trimmed bangs. Once, while unattended in toddler hands, I even cut a swatch of curls! I was a dutiful elf during the holidays: wrapping gifts, trimming ribbons, slicing through tape. The children developed their creativity through my touch. I was there for all their school projects and crafts, and I thrilled in their pride when they would show off treasured artwork. Sometimes, I accidentally taught their fingers the meaning of the word “sharp”. I snipped the tags off Son's baseball uniforms. I trimmed the ribbon on Daughter's corsage. We made graduation cards. And She captured every precious moment in the scrapbooks.

Every now and then I would disappear under a pile or in a drawer. But my orange handle would always find its way back to Her hand.

She began to crochet booties and blankets for the new grandchildren. There I was, at Her side to trim the yarn. She smiled at what we made. Then, She scrapbooked the photos.

One day, I clipped an obituary from the newspaper. She cried as she placed it tenderly on a page. I stayed by Her side, wishing She could revisit the joy of those younger years. She found a smile again, guarded in the pages of the old scrappings.

The clock ticked steadily on, and although my blade was ever faithful, Her hand was no longer steady. It was weathered and worn with the age that marched its unforgiving path across our surfaces. My own handle was no longer shiny. It was splattered with paint and years and love. I sat patiently in the drawer, waiting for our time to come again.

One day, Daughter shuffled through the odds and ends, seeking my orange handle. She placed me into frail, trembling hands. It had been a while, but I would never forget the feel of that loving grip I had known so well. We smiled again, as we worked slowly through a page, clipping, snipping, and trimming. Daughter's hand guided Hers, as we captured joy and memories one last time.

And then, Her hands were gone.

My drawer stayed dark and lonely. My days of creation seemed over. Until one day, my world was flooded with light.

“Look, Mommy! These were Grandma's scissors!” a voice chimed. I was plucked up and brandished in small, enthusiastic fingers.

“Yes, but be careful! They may be old, but the blades are still as good as new. I learned that lesson painfully a few times when I was little,” a familiar voice answered. It was Daughter. “Grandma loved her Fiskars. She used them all her life. Now they are yours.”

“Mine?”

“That's right. Grandma wanted you to have them. As long as you keep them dry and sharpened, they will be your trusty sidekick forever. And guess what? They have a name. Snippy.”

The child giggled. “Snippy? What are we going to make today, Snippy?”

“Why don't we start a scrapbook?” Daughter answered.

“What's a skapp-book?”

“It's how Grandma captured her life and memories. By making them into art. This was Grandma's favorite craft. It brought her so much joy. She left us a piece of herself, so she will always be with us.”

“Just like Snippy!” the child replied.

“That's right. Let's go look at Grandma's memories. Then we can make some of our own.”

I knew then that I was more than an heirloom, and that creation has no end. Mine is a legacy. I will always be there for the generations to inspire, create, and share. Just like those timeless scrapbooks She loved so much.