I don’t know why, but I love old things. Ancient, used, antique, time-worn, weathered, familiar, old-fashioned. I have fallen in love with objects of times gone by. My family doesn’t understand this infatuation. Each time I purchase an item, my dad quips, “I could tie that behind my truck and drag it a few miles to make it look more vintage.”
Is it that the scars, chipped paint, and aged-creaminess make these articles more beautiful?
Is it the fragrance of wooden chests, grandmas, and coziness that float to my nose when I unfold them?
Is it that these belongings are a small piece of the person who crafted them or washed them or cared for them?
Is it that they are proof of life before us and the hope that life will go on after us?
I’m not sure. The mystery of why these possessions bring happiness and comfort to me is maybe unexplainable, elusive, like a butterfly we almost touch before it floats away. But I will continue to collect them, treasure them, and touch them as I walk by.