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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required People sometimes tell me the heirlooms given to me hold no value over how my heart feels, but these things have memories, stories of where they've come from that tug at my heart. They’re scattered about my home, adorning it as subtle nostalgic strings upon which travel the finest emotions of bygone days. Grammy’s cookie jar sits atop my refrigerator filled with sugar cookies. It’s a big ceramic Shawnee Pottery Pig she purchased in 1950 that she named Sweetie-Pig. She kept it in a corner cabinet in her kitchen, a bit out of my reach forcing me to stand on ballerina toes hoping to nab just one of her sugar cookies. I can’t imagine my adulthood without the promise of one of the mist-shrouded cookies of yesteryear. When I get the urge, I lift Sweetie-Pig’s faded and aged lid and grab a cookie from her taking in all the wonderful memories of Grammy’s sweet smile while reminiscing about her sugar cookies. Mother’s pink gold cameo necklace is a family heirloom, a necklace she received upon graduation from high school. Wearing it reminds me of the rare occasion when she wore it, like her anniversary or Mother’s Day. I remember Pop standing behind her, his brown eyes sparkling, gently draping it around her neck. Using his large, callused fingers, he closed the tiny clasp; placed a gentle kiss on her right earlobe; and whispered, “I love you.” I cherished their demonstration of love for one another, their timeless bond that always leaves me feeling warm, secure, and safe. Touching Pop’s wire-rim glasses transports me back to our family’s living room where he sat down every evening with a cup of coffee, positioned his glasses on his nose, routinely reading the evening newspaper. I often sat at his side or by his feet reading a book, silently sharing the evening with him. My childhood piggy bank, Esmerelda, is a birthday gift I received from my Aunt Betty who’d once stuffed Esmerelda’s belly with coins when she was a child. Relda, as I named her, now sits on a bookshelf in my office reminding me of how many times I, too, stuffed Relda’s belly with coins I found or money I earned doing chores or running errands. Seeing her triggers memories of the lessons I learned in delayed gratification and frugality. These things and many more around my home are priceless heirlooms, things of the heart, infused with memories and emotions. I’m grateful for these tiny time machines, for they transport me back in time connecting me to a relative who lived long ago; a place from my past; or a long-forgotten special moment or event. The best of my memories go As far back and forwards as I reach. They form the golden thread of my soul and spine. They create a tapestry of hope and joy. They keep me warm in storms of living. They are real flashes. They are reality intermingled with bad memories. They bring joy despite the struggles. I smile and laugh anyway, for The happy times happened. I pack my mental suitcases with only the best of those memories. I can fly anyplace I want, anytime. The good memories are my salve. They are a comfort in the background. They are the elevator music of my soul. They come as a welcome stranger through the door, lighting up my life with a smile.
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