Voices from the Dust

An otherworldly mission involving craft supplies

It’s not like I was trying to turn Samantha’s bedroom into a storage closet. But when she left for BYU in August . . . well, it just happened. It started with little things, like when I accidentally ordered ten cases of green chiles instead of ten cans. The pantry was full, the area under our bed packed with dried beans and canned white wheat. So I shoved the cases in her closet.

Next was a pile of books I bought for Jacob’s birthday. I hid them under her desk. An extra supply of toilet paper went on her bed, an emergency chocolate stash behind her chair. I could easily clear it all out by the time she came home for summer break.

But then my grandmother died, and I inherited fifteen giant tubs of craft supplies. Whoever said collecting craft supplies and actually crafting were two separate hobbies had obviously met Oma.

So I stashed them in Samantha’s room and promised myself I’d sort through them long before the beginning of May.

Fast forward.

To March.

To a little countdown calendar sitting on our kitchen table reminding us it was only “five more weeks till Samantha comes home!”

I stood in the doorway, staring in horror at the wall of bins before me. What had Oma always said? The only way out was through? Okay, through I’d go. I opened the first bin and sneezed. Apparently her craft supplies hadn’t been used anytime this century.

And then I heard a voice.

It was like the Holy Ghost, except this voice was Oma’s. And she was telling me to write a limerick.