Cherished Keepsakes

Something From our Loved One's Own Hands

Moving houses a few times in the last twelve years provided opportunities to purge some junk I had been saving since the ‘80s. I’m not a hoarder by any means, but I never was as organized as I’d like to be, so finding old fabric scraps from when I tried my hand at calico blankets tossed in a box up in the rafters of the garage was no surprise. I could part with that box easily.

Not so easy is convincing my husband to let go of a sentimental keepsake from his mother who passed way too young. I found a place to store these rather large, ceramic “piano babies” she had (figurines that are meant to sit at the foot of your piano) because to me, they’re a little funny looking—not quite my style. And we don’t have a piano anyway.

I had a suitcase full of old photos from my mom & dad’s house. Sorted those and threw away many doubles or underexposed but kept a bunch that are only fun for me to look through. My grown children don’t seem interested. When it’s their turn to sort my house, I’m sure those will end up in the garbage.

What I must save is a few cards or letters with my mom’s handwriting.

It’s strange how you can feel a catch in your soul when you touch something that came from your loved one’s own hand.

It’s this familiar, comforting cord that stays strong through time. Ray Bradbury’s words about the things we leave behind come to mind:

“Something your hand touched . . . and when people look at [it] you’re there.”

What will my children save of mine?

Long ago, when I was about thirteen, one of my friends showed me a ring her father gave her signifying a sentimental vow that she was his. This was before the popular fad of “promise rings” took shape. We didn’t even know that phrase. It just symbolized a simple sense of belonging & protection. Being cherished. I mentioned the story to my dad, maybe hinting at how much I liked the idea, but he didn’t really respond much at the time, and I soon forgot about it.

One day, perhaps months later, I called home from a sleepover at a friend’s to check in, and dad answered. He said, “Why don’t I pick you up and we go shopping?” This was not a common activity, so, of course, I questioned. He added as if I should know, “You know, to get that ring you were talking about.”

My heart jumped, and soon we were headed to some jewelry store in Detroit where we picked out a beautiful gold ring with three emeralds and a couple tiny diamond chips. Green was my favorite color and diamond is my birthstone. I wore that ring for many years, not with pride exactly, but with a sense of honor & devotion. I would tell everyone how my father gave this special piece to me. A keepsake packed with meaning. I cherished the ring for 40 years, keeping it safe in my jewelry box in recent years, when I only wore it on special occasions. I felt a profound closeness to him while it hugged my pinky finger.

I have been writing about my past, my dad, so much lately that I wanted to wear the ring and feel his spirit moving through me as I tell stories.

Somehow in my latest move, the ring went missing. I have searched every little box and drawer and can’t find it anywhere.

A catch of a different kind plagues my soul now, even as I write. A deep sense of loss, like I have been searching for my dad for many years now, and I can’t find him.

How do I replace this keepsake with another when that’s the one we chose together? When that’s the one he touched?

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The memoir I am working on publishing honors my dad’s memory, and maybe all the stories in print left behind will not only provide that presence for me but also a catch in someone else’s soul as well. Someone who is missing his or her dad. Someone who has lost more than a simple, little memento.

[Leaving a ♥️ on a story always makes a writer’s day. Sharing it really builds community. I love to hear from readers, so feel free to comment & tell me about your keepsakes and their significance.]