I often forget to check pockets when I’m doing laundry. Which means that I’ve found some interesting things in the lint trap—sparkly stones, acorns, plastic “jewels,” the Playmobil crowns Youngest likes to wear as rings. Things worthy of being slipped into a pocket to keep forever.
But really, treasures are everywhere. Last week Middle woke up with the keys to her journal caught in her hair. The kids get time to read in bed every night after we tuck them in, but after the lights go out Middle often stays awake, telling stories to Youngest, or writing in her journal, or reading by flashlight. Her bed collects books, drawings, stories. She looks tired in the morning, but I know how much that time means to her.
I don't know what it is about the kitchen, but it seems to have a secret life as the Depository of Things Without a Home. People come through and shed bits of themselves. A plaster egg Oldest painted at Easter time appears on the windowsill. Books wait for their readers next to the radiator. Postcards perch on a shelf next to packets of seeds I dreamed of planting last spring.
The radiator cover in the downstairs bathroom is devoted to Things Found on Walks. Agates from Lake Superior, "Indian beads" (fossilized crinoid stems), shells, acorns, beach glass. Pieces of the outside world that had to become part of us.
Our bedroom, too, is full of evidences that children have been there. Notes and pictures from the kids, broken jewelry, dolls and stuffed animals, all of it wanders in and stays longer than we intend it to.
I remember my mother's comments after visiting other peoples' houses when I was young: "It looks like people live there," or, "That house seems so sterile." When I go to homes that are lovely and spare and spotless I marvel at the skill it took to achieve such a feat. I also regret my own housekeeping skills. It turns out, though, that as much as I say I value tidyness, I would rather be a champion of small things, of treasures worthy of slipping in your pocket. Dog-eared books and well-loved toys and things old and imperfect and well-loved.
Proof of who has passed through.
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