Fiction Fret
Talisman
Can the tangible capture the ephemeral? Do the things we love keep our memories? Can a treasured object give a fleeting dream a fragment of immortality? Do the things we love hold our devotion to those we leave behind?
Will my pen retain my ardor for words after I’m gone?
Does this chair remember my ass? Does this bright blue canvas hold onto the younger behind that sat in it when its material was new? Or does it record the rounder and squishier derriere that occupies its now faded hue? And when I’m gone, and the chair is even more faded and frayed will those who sit in it then, will they feel me?
Does a thing remember the me I was when I got it? Can an “it” hold onto that previous version of me — the dreams I dreamt when I first sat in it? Which iteration of Amy will my chair retain?
Does the nursery rocking chair remember my suckling infant and my dreams for her, then him? Does it bear witness to today’s teen angst?
Do the blue, pleated pants remember the giggles we giggled? Do they beg to share confidences with their matching blue vented jacket?
Does the dress in which I twirled remember the dance? Does it beg the shoes for a spin?
Are the cufflinks, now earrings, a bridge – is your love quite literally in my lobe?
Can the scissors from your C-suite desk, that once seemed so big, guide my now comfortably proportioned hands along your lines?
Can a room remember?
Are you still here through your smell that I smell when I walk into what was your room? Are you saved in my cilia or do the walls weep your scent?
Does the ring remember its vows even when the rightful finger is just out of reach?
I remember.
You.
With the square of gold that I rub on my lobe.
In the air when I breathe, your scent remains stuck in my cilia.
In the lines that continue to outline my goals these many decades later..
Will our descendants remember when I leave these things behind?
Does a thing remember the me I was when I got it? Can an “it” hold onto that previous version of me — the dreams I dreamt when I first sat in it? Which iteration of Amy will my chair retain?
Does the nursery rocking chair remember my suckling infant and my dreams for her, then him? Does it bear witness to today’s teen angst?
Do the blue, pleated pants remember the giggles we giggled? Do they beg to share confidences with their matching blue vented jacket?
Does the dress in which I twirled remember the dance? Does it beg the shoes for a spin?
Are the cufflinks, now earrings, a bridge – is your love quite literally in my lobe?
Can the scissors from your C-suite desk, that once seemed so big, guide my now comfortably proportioned hands along your lines?
Can a room remember?
Are you still here through your smell that I smell when I walk into what was your room? Are you saved in my cilia or do the walls weep your scent?
Does the ring remember its vows even when the rightful finger is just out of reach?
I remember.
You.
With the square of gold that I rub on my lobe.
In the air when I breathe, your scent remains stuck in my cilia.
In the lines that continue to outline my goals these many decades later..
Will our descendants remember when I leave these things behind?
My answer to your question is, Yes. Now, things don’t have memories, of course, but people do. In my son’s bedroom, the bureau and bookcase from my childhood bedroom are filled again with a child’s clothes and books. I can show him a picture from 55 years ago showing them. I’ve told him the story of how my mother and I painted and stained the plain Childcraft wood. I don’t know if some future grandchild will have them in his or her room, but it’s nice to think about.
My wife’s engagement ring was my mother’s 25th anniversary ring. It’s simple and pretty — not worth a great deal of money — but it was precious to her and now to my wife. Maybe someday it will belong to a daughter in law or a granddaughter.
But even if not *these* particular things, there will be something that our children will keep with them and pass on to theirs, and maybe beyond.