When my mother and stepfather passed away, they left behind three storage units. I found them full of years worth of items that they had collected while owning and operating a local antique store, Candlestix Antiques. I remember spending days in the store, just scoping out all of the neat and cool objects from days long gone. Back then, antique stores were everywhere here in Iowa, but those days seem to have diminished greatly over the years. Along with that, the storage units were not well kept, which has rendered much of what is there, damaged and ruined to the point of uselessness and trash.
But every once in a while, as I’m cleaning away the dust, I come across something that excites my interest or brings back memories, some happy, some sad.
It also makes me wonder, what will I leave behind, and who will find it. You, see, I have no children, no spouse to leave the treasures of my life to. It makes me question why I even have them in the first place. Many of the things I have collected have no significant use. They are simply relics of my past. I certainly can’t take them with me to the grave, and while they once gave me joy, many of them are really just collecting dust.
I have old D&D box sets that remind me of my first adventures in role-playing games. I have books, that I’ve read and then forgotten about. I have collectors boxes for video games, and shelves full of stuff. I have a room that is stuffed full of craft supplies that I’ll never use. I have a model train set that has been out of the box once. I have a set of salt and pepper shakers that are shaped like the Starship Enterprise and the Galileo Shuttlecraft. Fun to look at for sure, but pretty impracticable to actually use. I have a model of the USS Iowa, still unassembled, still sealed in its box. I have a box, that contains the ashes of my best fury friend Alexander, who I lost many years ago. Thinking of him warms my heart, but seeing that box does nothing but bring me tears.
Why do we keep these things?
Why have humans developed this constant desire to collect things? Why do we spend hours and hours, and precious resources on mundane objects that have no discernable use but to sit on a shelf? Why do we develop sentimental attachments to things? What sort of advantage does this evolutionary development bring to us?
The things that we collect, the books that line the shelves of our homes, the little glass trinkets that take up so much space. They tell a story of who we are. They are expressions of our desires, our wants, and our dreams. They shout our ambitions to the world. They are trophies of our successes and lessons in our failures. They are the tools we use to help us achieve peace and happiness in a life that is full of storm waves and chaos.
What story will the things that I own tell my friends and loved ones when I’m gone?