A shiny, deep red drinking bottle made of aluminum with a screw cap. The bottle was manufactured by SIGG. It is the heavy-duty type, sturdy and practical – one that a mountain climber would probably choose to carry around on his journey (at least my mind). Richard bought it shortly before we got engaged and from day one of our life as a married couple it has been a fixture on our bedside table.
In our bedroom there is a pitcher and two drinking glasses on a tray – like a trimming we can do without. Yet, it is more convenient to chug water from the aluminum bottle whenever we want to. Of course, it goes without saying that this little red roommate of ours has fallen and rolled over, been stepped on and knocked down countless times.
Yesterday, I was rearranging the contents of one closet when I came across a big box that holds all the little odds and ends I buy during our trips. Among them were two brand-new SIGG bottles: one gray, the other one blue. They stared back at me, beaming in their mint condition. I realized just how worn out our original red drinking bottle had become. The dents, scratches, and chips on its once shiny body have altered its original form, testament to the years of use and abuse it has endured.
For a minute I considered letting the red one go, but that’s about as far as it went. I could not bring myself to do it. It is flawed, yes, but it is what I still want, and, in my eyes, it is as perfect as the first day we started using it.
I remember it as a worthy companion in my first month of pregnancy when all I could take was huge amounts of water. From that same bottle we would gulp down medication we had to take round the clock when Richard or I was nursing the flu or a cold. I had also used it base many times to draw a perfect circle for my crafting activities and Juliana’s little projects, and at one point I even used it to relieve the stiffness on my back. I really do not think I should let it go just yet.
I’ve always liked having old things, maybe because they always have stories to tell. Even when it makes no sense to hang on to something, I do so because of the memories they bring. Everywhere around me there are things I love to have and hold because of the people, places and times they remind me of. When I bake, for instance, I always use a huge glass bowl dotted with blue and yellow flowers, a present from one of my best friends-and-cousin, Tricia. She bought it for me on a trip we took together to Manila. Looking at it reminds me of all the good times we shared.
A delicately painted plate on my desk, which serves as a catch-all for receipts and other odds and ends that pile up every week, reminds me of Tita Inday who in my pre-teens introduced me to the wonderful world of crafting with my hands. On my bedside table is a vase, raw and unapologetically wild and as beautiful as only a child can make it. Once upon a time it was an empty bottle of Gatorade that Juliana painted over and decorated in an art class almost two summers ago. It is perfect the way it is.
I also have a red shirt, which is supposed to have a snug fit but it is two sizes too big for me. I keep it and wear it, because it was given to me by my brothers when they were both in high school and I know they paid for it with money they saved from their allowances.
I have a white shirt made of pretty eyelet material. One sleeve has a permanent stain but I know I will have it refashioned so I can keep on wearing it. It was a present from my sister – she knew I would love it.
I have letters from a classmate of Juliana, a little, big boy nicknamed Beatle who has a cute crush on his Tita Lucy. His chubby cheeks turn beet red whenever I ask him for a hello kiss. He has given me letters fro Valentine‘s Day, one of them asking me to have dinner with him in Greenbelt. I have kept all his handwritten notes – they make me smile. Such spontaneity and pureness from a child. When Beatle grows to be a young a man, I will show him the notes he gave me. Then we will both have a good laugh.
In our kitchen cupboard there is an old pie pan, one of the first I ever bought as a new bride. I had every intention of retiring it until one afternoon when it became home to the sweetest mango pie I ever tasted. I was having a most terrible day and Richard called to check on me. He probably knew by how I sounded on the phone what a miserable time I was having because he rushed home earlier than he was supposed to. "I’ll bake you a mango pie, honey," was all he said, my sweet man of very few words. And so he did. With a recipe he downloaded from the web, he baked me a pie from scratch. I do not even really like mango pie, and the mangoes we had then were not even very sweet, but I ate my slice, gratefulness finding a place in my heart. I know that was the best mango pie I ever had and will ever have. It did not erase my sadness but his gesture really did cut through the bleakness of my day. Whenever I see the scratched, lopsided tin pan, I am reminded of how blessed I am for having my heart’s true companion.
I am attached to things not because of their beauty and function but primarily because of what they represent in my life. I admit that as I hang on to good memories old things bring I can also easily let go of the very things that draw me back to the saddest of times. I want to seal and stamp them as closed chapters in my life and letting go of physical reminders is a tangible way of doing just that. But that makes for another story so for let’s just leave it at that.
Practical or sentimental, I am a far from being ruthless in disposing of what others may consider old, or what they will easily write off as clutter. It has ceased to matter that some these do not always blend with the rest of the house nor with my current state of mind – not everything in life should anyway, not everything will. The junk I have are very simply vintage "lookbooks" in the landscape of my life. They are bubble-wrapped with my life’s real treasures – the gift of beautiful relationships.
In this month’s Real Simple magazine, a reader wrote to say that to minimize clutter in her life she asks herself whether she truly likes a given object or just the memories associated with it. If it is the latter and the item has ceased to serve any aesthetic or useful purpose, she revisits and basks in those memories, remembering that they are the real gift, and then she passes the item on.
I am a long way off from being like her, as much as I would want to. I cannot be that detached just yet. I will guiltlessly pass on a brand- new item I purchased over an old one that has a lovely memory attached to it. All these old things are perfect just the way they are, painted in the beautiful colors of remembering. And somehow I know that years from now I will still find it in me to look for the sparkle in something old even when I think I need something new.