I’ve spoken before about the stories of objects and my struggles to let things go because of their associations. Because of who owned them and who they were important to. And perhaps proving I’m not a complete hoarder, I do and try to have a clean out from time to time.
I’m thinking about having a market stall soon, to clear out some clutter and my mother is pitching in with some of her own things.
Today though, she handed me Grandma’s sewing kit to sell.
Mum sighed, ‘I know. And look, the handle.’
Grandad had fixed the handle. He was practical with ideas to make things better. He was a fixer. It was Grandifcation.
I took it home and stared at it. I remembered Grandma using it. I unpacked it of things Mum clearly didn’t intend to dispose of and I knew Mum hadn’t opened it. She couldn’t. She’d let the sewing box go, but the rest was too much.
Grandad died in 2004, Grandma in 2012
It’s still raw.
What was left in the sewing kit was unremarkable and yet these buttons and spools of cotton panicked me. I feared they were important to Grandma and I did not know it. There were two dried rose buds and I wondered if they were from a wedding. Should I keep them?
This is the hardest part. Trying to reconcile objects with heartache. Trying to convince yourself that the memories matter more.
But it’s hard.
The next person who inherits these things will know even less, will care even less. And while this is life and perhaps even how things should be a lump forms in my throat and my eyes ache with unshed tears.
Strangely, Grandma was the most unsentimental person I’ve ever known but knowing that doesn’t make this any easier. Though, Grandad was the opposite. They were an odd couple.
I miss them.
I miss them muchly.