I started working on our taxes this week.

Actually I started organizing papers for someone else to do our taxes. It gave me an excuse to rummage through some desk drawers and old shoe boxes, which is more fun than actually doing the paperwork someone else needs to do our taxes.

What also makes this fun is that I get to revisit things that I really should – but hate to throw things out. How can I? I might need those things some day. Plus some of them have sentimental value. Some have financial worth (hey, I watch Antiques Roadshow) and some are just worthless junk with sentimental value (yea, I watch Antiques Roadshow).

Buried between old floppy computer disks, a Parker pen and pencil set without the pen and a Lake George ruler featuring pictures of Storytown, I found my mom's red leather card case. It was the last one she had. I don't remember ever taking it after she died — let alone storing it in a shoebox with some forgotten tchotchkes.

The case needed the help of a rubber band to stay closed — and once I undid the band I realized why. Mom had managed to squeeze much of her identity into that case.

Turns out she was a card-carrying member of the pacemaker club. I knew for years that she had one and often suggested she check the warranty. You could imagine the jokes that we shared about her heart needing help. Cruel but funny.

What I didn't know was that she carried two cards that identified that she had a medical device. Had the implant date, model and serial number as well as the name and number of her doctor. Handy stuff.

Not surprising is that she had the business cards for all her key doctors.

The cardiologist, pulmonologist, podiatrist and gastroenterologist. Even her dentist. I heard her mention some of these names for years. I felt like I knew them. She had their office numbers. Some even their home numbers. Mom had the names of the office secretaries on the card. Mom was good.

There was a New York City Board of Elections card, her union pension card and her Brooklyn Library Card. I hadn't seen a library card in years. Who knew she had one? Good for her.

Mom was also a card-carrying member of Eebee’s Fashion Express, a family clothing store. They had four locations when she got the card, but when I Googled the place they were all closed. I'd hate to think that her death had anything to do with poor sales.

Of course she had the usual assortment of credit cards. I couldn't stop staring at the expiration dates. She had one of my old Record business cards — although it probably wasn't too old at the time. It had my pager number on it. I forgot that I had a pager.

I wasn't surprised to see her driver’s license even though she gave up her car when she moved back to Brooklyn. But I was caught off guard when I tried to pull the license out of the plastic card holder to get a better look at her picture.

Behind the license was an older driver's license. And an older one behind that. And one behind that. Mom had five driver's licenses stacked one behind the other. The oldest issued in 1985 - more than 20 years before she died. She looked more like the Mom I knew growing up — not the one who I had said a final goodbye to.

I carefully put everything back in the red case, using the rubber band to keep it closed.

I’ll file this one away as priceless.

Barry Lewis is a longtime journalist and author who lives with his wife Bonnie in the Town of Neversink. He can be reached by email at barrylewis­scdemocrat@ gmail.com.