She kept a collection of china bells for years
and I had no idea.
There they were, in plain sight, arranged in a
curio cabinet for guests to see and appreciate for years and years. I’d walked
through her house countless times and never noticed them. The date on the
oldest bell was over forty years ago, and as I walked through her house for the
last time after her funeral, I saw those bells for the very first time.
When I asked about them, my mother told me how
Grandma would stop by mid-morning after her annual bell purchase, announcing
that she got this year’s offering. “Got my Christmas bell today,” she’d say.
I didn’t even know they were there, I said. Such
a small thing, but they must have meant something to her, we agreed. She
collected for no one but herself. What else did she treasure that we didn’t
know about?
My mom told me she kept letters, wedding
invitations, keepsakes from trips abroad, albums full of pictures – the stuff
of a life of a person who loved to look back. We all knew she was sentimental;
we all can remember stories that she told over and over. I get my own
sentimentality from her. I acknowledge this readily, accept this character
trait as a gift passed down through the generations, reference my grandmother as
the head of our own particular clan of romantics when I’m caught in a cloud of
memories.
“I’m a sentimental fool,” I say. “I love to
look back. It’s in my blood – my Grandma was the same way. I can’t help it.”
I’m not so special – lots of people recall times
gone by. My memories are mostly rose-colored. And why not? The past can’t be
changed. Why not remember the good things and bring them into the present? Goodness
and love, the passing of time: all of these things have healing powers.
Those bells, like the rest of her things that
marked her time on earth, are gone now, mementos of a life so quickly scattered,
a few things saved by family members and friends to remember her. I often
wonder about the things that kept my loved ones company in life, what other
things like amassing a collection of pretty bells brought them joy.
And I look around at my own things, collected
and saved to commemorate a date or an event. I think of this stuff I’ve
accumulated, and wonder which trinkets and memories are overlooked today but
which my loved ones might discover later.
What memories do we hold dear when our loved
ones are gone?
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