Something I keep for which I have no use...

It's not the serving tray with the warped dowels and off-center handles that I made in wood shop for my mother in eighth grade.

It's not the fire alarm that used to stand outside the window of my room, the alarm that was the subject of my high school photography class, that my parents made the subject of my 25th birthday party when they bought it since the whole alarm system went from wired to wireless.

It's not the old mechanical pachinko machine that sits on the floor, the one I used to play every time I came home from college, every time I visited my parents.

It's not the short piece of orange cable that sits on my bookshelf that I got at a dinner party at the home of the first person I ever hired. His father was there, and after I had listened with fascination about his days as an electrician on the Golden Gate Bridge, he took me out to the garage and gave me a piece of the Bridge.

It's not the Foosball table that sits idle since my boys went off to college. We used to have a tournament on New Year's Eve, to help us stay awake until midnight, my boys and their friends, four of us to a team, double elimination.

It's not the bowling pins from my neighbor, whose father used to own a bowling alley, our gift before we moved away.

It's not the piano I got for my daughters from a dear friend. The piano was free, as long as I came to get it, two hours of turns along the coast in a rental truck with my oldest son, now big enough to help move a piano. The bench has the hand-embroidered seat cover made by my friend's daughter, still in pristine condition since my daughters never played.

It's not the karaoke machine that plays songs, but doesn't show the words, not since the screen died at the Christmas party a few years ago, in the garage with nieces and nephews, none of our kids, my wife and me singing “I got you, babe!”

It's not grandma's rocking chair from Kentucky that squeaks so loudly that I can't hear the TV, especially since I've been losing my hearing.

Maybe it's the pump organ that doesn't work, not the one upstairs that sits in the parlor, but our second pump organ, that we got from a stranger's brother, who had asked for a tour of our home, who thought the old organ his brother was storing in the garage would look perfect in our Victorian.

Yes, maybe it's the old worn out pump organ.

- James Seamarsh, who is still looking for the pedal on the pump organ.