I have a hard time getting rid of stuff. Living in a one bedroom apartment, trying to combine my stuff, Joe's stuff, and all of our new stuff is proving to be a challenge. I was naive enough to think that in the few days after we got back from our honeymoon, I'd whip it right into shape and be done.
That was a month ago, and there are still boxes everywhere. I did get the Christmas stuff put away in a timely manner. Now it's time to get it out. But I don't have anywhere to put it.
This is not really my point. My point is that it is hard for me to get rid of things because I associate so many "things" with different times in my life that I don't want to lose. I've thought about this before, but the idea came to me again tonight because I opened a box and saw a towel. It's an average towel. Below average, if you want to know the truth. It's edges are frayed, it's pretty small, (I'm not sure if this is because it has shrunk, which seems unlikely, or because in the 70's/early 80's when it was purchased, people were smaller and didn't need as much fabric to cover them,) and, as the 70's/early 80's reference implies, it is old. As old as me, probably. And while 30 may be young for a person, it does not seem young for a towel. So, to the average person, this towel is likely a below average looking towel, more suitable for the rag bin than Goodwill.
When I look at the towel, however, I see my childhood. I see my house on Bancroft, and younger versions of myself and my brother. I hear my Mom and Dad talking in the background, and I smell our home. I touch it and I feel a sense of homeness. All of this in a towel. This, of course, brings the dilemma: do I keep it, as I have for the last several years, not really using it but not wanting to let go of it, or do I let it go, realizing that the memories are in me, not in the towel?
I don't know which side will win, but for now I think I'll just leave it out where I can see it, because I sure like those memories. Not only do they recall my past, but they hold promise for a future, in a home of my own, with my husband, raising children who may someday look at a towel and see me.
