Treasure House

Stuff. My relationship with stuff is one of longing. Longing for explanations. Longing for a past. Seeking a proof of our undeniable interconnectedness. I like touching the scars left by love and time on discarded objects. I feel included in their story, their life, for those moments when I am near that which they lost or gave away. I want to  be these objects's salvation. Cradle them and tell them of their worth.

I remember sitting in my grandma’s attic, dusty and dark, illuminated by the tired sun through the cracks in the warped boards. Sitting in the hazy light, I held  moth-riddled remnants of my mother’s hopeful youth. Entangling my fingers in the knitted logic of her shirt, I was touching the child that did not know of my existence.  It  is a sweet version of death, this nearness to my mother’s life before me, before my dad, before she let go of dreams, before she acquiesced to life’s many devastating compromises . Stuff keep our secrets and honor our stories. That shirt knows her in a way I never will.

Almost everyday that I can, I stop by the Treasure House at Rose Villa. Walking by the stacks of postcards collected from vacations, business trips, sent by adventuring friends, I graze their softened edges with my fingertips but feel their cut deeper inside of me.  I let my hands get lost in the folds of the dresses hanging from the racks by the wall before stopping by the cups to set them in the soft palm of my hands. I may never meet most of the people whose life relics line the shelves at the Treasure House. They left their homes that had accumulated gifts from their adult children, the rocks they brought back from trips to the coast, the blankets they stored up for guests to use during Thanksgiving. Rose Villa’s  homes are accessible, open, and modest. It is hard to imagine a lifetime fitting between the white walls and above the beige carpets. Some things that have no room in this newly retired life make it to the Treasure House, others go home with family members whose homes are still building those layers of memories.

I used to sit in the dusty attic looking for my mom. Today, I am at Rose Villa, at the Treasure House, knowing I'll never find her, but I'll find other beautiful souls I'll never forget.