Every Object Tells A Story

This morning I found an item of clothing I hadn’t worn in nearly 6 years and it started me thinking about other items and what they mean to me. This unassuming top that I would wear trying to make myself believe I looked OK in stripes and in a way my own defiance to fashion (after all we can’t look good all the time now can we?) (Does anyone else still own something that makes them look huge/terrible but still wear it anyway behind closed doors just because you like it? Or is that just me?).

Anyway this top was one of the last things I was wearing on my final day with Emily and since then, along with the dressing gown I took with me, I have been unable to put these clothes on again. The memories they invoke being too tough to deal with. It’s funny how seemingly simple inanimate objects can effect us. This had me thinking about other objects or things that I possess that mean something to me good and bad.

It might be something like a song on the radio that makes me strut my funky stuff whilst I tackle stubborn baked on stains, breaking the monotony of housework, or a smell, like the waft of my fiance’s soap every time I open the bathroom cabinet making me think of him when he isn’t here (sometimes when I’m missing him I do just that, just don’t tell him, he might think I like him or something).

After my old Scottie dog died, I was in bits, I remember I had a toy Scottie dog and found myself hugging it tightly, finding it oddly smelling like him, like he was still here. The smell has long since gone, like it lingered just long enough for me to know I did not need it anymore, I still hug that dog from time to time because I’m not quite ready to let go of him just yet. He was my rock through a lot of things that happened in my life and that inconspicuous toy dog reminds me of that and of him.

I remember many years ago one of my sisters asking me to change a song that came on because it reminded her of something she would rather not think about. At the time I was too young to understand why, but now all these years later I do, having my own songs that serve as reminders of similar events. Every time I see a chess set I am transported back to the Lake District to an old cottage filled with books and knickknacks  and a curl of tobacco smoke and to a dear gentleman who taught me how to play. Knitting needles, a set of curlers and Hilda Ogden from Classic Coronation Street bring forth my Great Auntie Pat who taught me how to knit and who would sing like Hilda Ogden when she dusted.

As a writer I find my mind turning to that of my characters, would they have similar things that bring forth memories to them? Perhaps a physical scar when every time they see their reflection reminds them of the horrors of a war where they lost more than just their good looks, maybe they find themselves reaching for a necklace that they wear around their neck linking them to the gift giver, providing them with the reassurance they need to get through, maybe they sniff a book or two because its scent transports them someone else? Or carry a crumpled photo of a happier time because it gives them hope for the future?

These things all  serve as reminders of our history good and bad, they tell us of our journey, what a roller coaster of a ride it has been and will continue to be, they transport us to where we need and want to be, grant us moments which we can either chose to embrace or leave alone for awhile and bring to life people who we have shared this journey with who have long since gone. So next time you reach for an old object in your home or put on a tune that brings a smile to your face, have a think about what it means to you, you might just be surprised at where they transport you to.