She holds onto items in her home that many would consider damaged or worthless. Objects with cracks, bruises, and patches where the paint is chipped away. Yet she cannot and indeed refuses to let them go. In reality, these belongings were presents from her father to her kids. He died three years ago. The silence following his passing was deeply intense. Each day, she hoped to see him brewing coffee, chuckling, and inquiring about the children. What appeared instead was simply emptiness. Slowly, she realized that many tiny objects nearby actually held a fragment of him.
The idea of letting go of them was unbearable. In the living room corner sits a rocking chair, worn and delicate. Her father would cradle his daughter in his arms, gently rocking her in that chair as he hummed softly, and she would soon fall asleep. The wood on the chair is marked with scratches that the paint has. One small screw is slightly loose. Whenever she looks at it, she recalls her father’s gentle embrace and how her daughter felt safe with her eyes shut. She believed that removing that chair would mean erasing the memory and him as well.
A toy truck sits with its wheels wobbly. Its vivid colors have dulled in the opposite corner. Her son once played with it until he left childhood behind, then he set it aside for some time. Dad would “race” the trucks by pushing them across the floor simply to watch her boy break into giggles. When she gazes at that truck now, she no longer just notices plastic and axles; rather, she perceives joy, delight, and a dad striving to create a childhood. Her dad gave her gifts. Some were significant: a birthday bike, a wooden bookcase, and a little table, for painting and drawing.
Others were small: a water bottle adorned with a superhero decal, a cartoon-patterned blanket, a pencil case that once held ambitions and dreams. After he left, even the tiniest items turned into lifelines. When her friends suggested that she discard the damaged belongings and tidy up the house, saying, “You don’t need things weighing your home down,” she stayed still. It didn’t seem right. How could she let go of things her dad had handled? How could she erase proof that he had existed, that his home had been full of love and joy? So she chose to hold on to them.
As she stowed away some of the items, she kept all the smaller ones close: the frayed blanket, the cracked bowl, the toy truck, the rocking chair. She preferred they not be visible to everyone. She wanted them somewhere she could easily locate them. Whenever the sorrow became overwhelming, she would turn to them. Clutching them in her palms, catching the aroma of wood or aged plastic, she felt as if her Dad was present, for a brief moment. These memories aren’t perfect. They don’t restore his voice or his embraces. Yet they carry the resonance.
They remind her that love existed here. That despite his absence, his love, deeds, and compassion remain. Occasionally, she considers: perhaps she ought to discard them. Perhaps she ought to replace them so that the home wouldn’t serve as a memory of the grief. When she listens to my children’s laughter or notices their artwork on the walls, she realizes that these damaged items are not just junk. They are pieces of our family, pieces of moments, pieces of him. When she gazes at those imperfections, the cracked chair, the worn-out paint, the wheel, she perceives something entirely distinct. She sees patience, acceptance, and survival. She sees genuine love, love that outlived grief. So she is patient. She let them be. She doesn’t buff them to make them shiny again. She doesn’t repair them to make them look flawless. She allows them to remain broken.
