My mother used to squeeze a grudge so tight it would scream for mercy. I hold mine far more gently, gingerly—even unsurely, at times. I let them go, mostly—sooner rather than later—but I don’t let them go too far. I set them on an unobtrusive shelf, where they gather dust for a time, then, when the occasion seems to call for one of their number, I seek it out, polish it off and place it on ostentatious display, front and center—right in your face.

I should amend that: make that “in my face.”  That is, in only my own face, not yours, not anyone else’s. You see, these are my precious treasures; they are to be cherished in private. These grudges of mine—are mine! No touching. Don’t even look at them!

Truth be told, I’d be ashamed to have you look at them, at any of them. Doubtless, you’d scoff at them, every one of them, and rightfully so.

That old thing? Give it a decent burial already!

Seriously? You’ve kept this for twenty years?

My God, you’ve had this for how long now?

Do you even remember where you got it?

Are you sure it belongs to you?

What can I say in my defense? That I have trouble throwing anything out?  A lame excuse, for sure. In fact, my tossing skills have much improved in general; it these particular possessions that I am loathe to relinquish.

You see, I fear that I may need my grudges again someday. I need to know that they are there, just in case. Just in case I start to feel a twinge of resentment toward someone, for something they did—or might have done, I can’t quite remember—I would want to muster up the appropriate grudge by way of a booster, so as to ensure that my incipient feelings of self-righteousness are sustained. Memory fades after all; I must maintain my arsenal of reminders. Reminders of the sundry insults and injuries incurred over the past 60 years, inadvertent though they may be.  

In the meantime, I promise to treat my grudge collection with the care it deserves, to keep it safely out of sight, in the hope of keeping it mostly out of mind. I hereby pledge, to myself, that I will take it from its hiding place only rarely, judiciously, lest I become jaded from too-frequent contemplation of its contents, and lest the shiny treasures begin to tarnish. After all, these gems are intended for special occasions; the less I handle them day-to-day, the longer—ever so much longer—they’ll retain their luster.