I found something in the lovely black hole that is my closet earlier today. I had completely forgotten about it until I spied it, hidden under a collection of old music books on the back shelf. When my grandparents passed away, the family sorted through their things, as I imagine is typically the case, and claimed a few items. My parents snagged their old pots and pans and I throw some sentimental thoughts their way every time I make pasta sauce, the family recipe that I learned at birth, of course. A few pictures, her turquoise ring that I wear constantly, and among a few other things including her sewing box, I inherited her old film camera gear. I was bizarrely sentimental cleaning the lens, reading the manual. I know it seems silly. It’s like finding my fourth birthday card, with their handwritten note. And I realize that I’ll never open the mailbox and open a letter with his handwriting, signed, “Love, Papa.” I don’t mean to be sad, but to reflect on how it surprises me, the way we hold on to people after they pass away. We place their memories in objects, pictures, things that remind us of them, things that represent them, things that smell like them, things, things, things. Comforting, but never enough.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this, so I’m just going to stop here. Three a.m. syndrome. Blah.


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