The Safety of Objects

I remember the sound it made when it cracked against the ground. I remember the way the moment seemed to slow as I reached out my hand to snatch it out of the air. I remember the way it felt to just miss it, that feeling of impending doom, that knowledge that it would only be a few more moments before I was discovered, before I was in trouble.

I took the broken binoculars to my mother. I held them before her and apologized for taking what didn't belong to me, for not taking care of what didn't belong to me. I expected her to be angry for ruining something that was hers. But when I looked up into her eyes I did not find anger. I found sadness. A deep, profound sadness that I had yet to understand existed. The kind of sadness that comes only after someone has gone.

The binoculars were not hers. They belonged to her father who had died before I was born. They were all she had left of him. And I broke them. I broke the only remaining tangible object that she had, the only thing she could grip between her cupped hands and know that he had once held in just the same way. I took from her an important link to her past, an important gift that could never again be given. I ruined something from someone she loved.

A friend of mine once told me that she loved buying me presents because no matter what it was, no matter how hideous or ridiculous, I would love it. I would use it or wear it or display it proudly. I would cherish it as though it were everything.

And I realized that for me, it is everything. Those small little gifts, those cards, those books, those journals, those notes passed between idle moments during classes, those are my everything. Those are my reminders that I am loved. Those are my collection of me.

I think about this every time I am tempted to clean out my collection of material things, things I haven't touched in ages, things that have somehow traveled with me through all walks of life. I hold them in my hands. I wonder why I feel such a need to cling to every little scrap of paper, every little ticket stub and toy. I wonder why I, who cares so little about the typically materialistic world, feels such a need to hold onto these pieces of my life.

But the answer is simple. It is not that they are pieces of me, it's that they are pieces of you. It's that I can hold them in my hands and know that you held it in just the same way. It's that I can open the doodle you sketched for me during a boring study hall and smile with all of the joy it brought me then, and all of the joy it continues to bring me in my recollection of such a moment. It's that to look upon my walls and shelves means looking at you. It's that those tiny pieces mean that you are always with me. It's that keeping them around is a way to keep you, forever.

Of course I had felt badly about breaking the binoculars, but I was young, and hadn't ever understood the grand sorrow of their loss. I hadn't understood what it meant to lose someone. I hadn't understood the importance, the comfort, the safety of objects. I hadn't understood that they could mean more than their intended purpose, that they could, in fact, mean everything.

I look through the boxes of things I have saved over the years and in them, I find you. I find the laughter we shared. I find the warmth of our hugs. I find my love for you, growing ever stronger, replenishing those parts of my soul that need to be replenished. I find you. I find us. I find everything.

And if someday they were to be gone, I too, would feel that deep, profound sorrow of loss.