I'd like to think that I'm not held down by material possessions. I'd like to see myself as a person who can rise above that need for that brand-new-something. I'd like to be the person who could part with items simply because someone else needs it more than I do. If I only owned something for the sake of owning it, and someone else truly needed it, or it would be a luxury for them to have, then I would like to be that person that could just part with it without regret.
But then there are the sentimental items. Those that you keep not because of their function, but rather because of what they mean to you. Would it be easier to decide to keep or give away or chuck it away if it were not functional? Like old love letters. Do you chuck them away just because the relationship has ended? They can do no good to anyone else, and perhaps you yourself have not set eyes on them in years. Do you throw them away? How do you decide that "this is trash" and to put it into a bag together with banana peels and food wrappers? How do you decide that you will no longer want to see reminders of when life's joy meant seeing that note tucked secretly into your text book; heart thumping and pulling away so no one could see you carefully read the written words of your loved one? Your fingers cold, trembling, your eyes darting across the room and across the page. Careful Teacher doesn't catch sight of you, and careful your friends don't try to take a peek, your brain commands your eyes to read one word at a time, but you can't. Your eyes excitedly dart across the page he lovingly wrote for you. Your face lights up, your cheeks glow, your pupils dilate. You finish reading, heart thumping like a rabbit across a carrot field, fold it carefully the exact same way he folded it for you. You sneak a glance at him, and he meets your gaze. Bliss.
There are also the safety items. Like blankets. Or pillows. We find comfort in their texture, their smell (unwrinkle your nose. You know you love that smell), their feel as you run your fingers through them. On bad days we cry our tears right into them, holding them close. On happy days we hug them tight till their shape's all wrong. On angry days we squeeze them, or perhaps just cuddle with them while whispering curse words to those who made us angry.
Then the greatest disaster hits. They get washed. If you're lucky, they come out looking brand new and you discover it was a totally different color than you imagined all along. You smell the fabric softener instead of that smell you loved and knew so well all these years. But if you're UN-lucky, it gets mangled and doesn't survive the wash. Or it looks fine physically, but for some unknown inexplicable reason it comes out smelling like salted fish. So you try to sun dry it. Doesn't work. You dry it for three days straight. Doesn't work. You douse it with odor remover. Doesn't work. You douse it again with odor remover. Still doesn't work. You put on its coat anyway hoping that after you hug it a few nights, your smell will return to it and cover up the salted fish smell. You give up after forty minutes of agonizing hugging because the smell of salted fish just doesn't promote sleep. You soak it in odor remover and leave it to dry in the sun. It still smells like salted fish. Now it's been lying on the bed unhugged for the past four days because even though the stench has lessened due to the multiple dousing of odor remover, it just doesn't feel right.
I miss you. I really really miss you. Seeing you at a distance, in full view but out of reach, I realize that I really do love you. They told me to just get a new one. But how do you even begin to search for one that feels just right when you run your fingers through it? How do you search for the one that cuddles you at just the right angles of your face and body? How do you decide that this is the one that will replace the one I've had all these years. Having it chucked away at the corner of my bed may be "throwing it away" already, in a sense. I don't touch it anymore, I don't cuddle up to it anymore, I've even shed tears without it in my arms. But to pick it up, and put in in the rubbish pile downstairs, with the soiled diapers and broken dishes….how do I do that?
So you keep in in the corner. Perhaps, just perhaps, someday it will lose the salted fish scent it suddenly developed, and though the scent may not be the exact same that you fell in love with, maybe the smell will be an ok smell that you'll learn to love. It will be a new love, and you'll have to search again for those cuddle spots you had together those past years, but it should still be there. You can't assume to just pick up where you left off. It will be a struggle. Perhaps you will give up. Perhaps you'll have the greatest cuddles ever that will last you a whole lifetime.
But maybe, just maybe, you're just meant to get a new one.
I pick it up for a moment. I don't cuddle it, for fear that if I were repulsed by its scent that I forever be disgusted by its existence. I take a gentle whiff. I still smell traces of the salted fish. God knows how it got that salted fish smell. Right after going through the wash, too! The blanket, pillow cases, another small pillow, all went in the same cycle, yet they all came out smelling just fine! Why do you have that horrid stench inside of you? Perhaps it was there all along, but I failed to notice it. I was too engrossed in my tears and need for cuddles to realize that you always had that salted fish scent inside of you. You kept it hidden, because you knew I needed the cuddles back then. You sneaky piece of fluff.
I held it closer this time, took a deep sniff. I think I'll give some more time in the corner. Perhaps, in the near future, we'll find ourselves in cuddles again in between the comforter sheets. I don't know whether I'll be the one to take you out of the corner, or you'll find your way back to me. But I'm keeping you. I'm not throwing you away. And I'm not "getting another" either.
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