The Things We Carry With Us

My bedroom is full of relics.

From house to house, room to room, I've carried pieces of the past into every new stage of my life. To my left, a collection of jewelry and clothing built upon my shifting interests throughout the years. There's a framed puzzle I found at an antique store that depicts a bejeweled maiden lying comfortably between a lion and lionness. To my right, a collection of abstract art pieces from elementary school, and some feathers I'd collected from the grounds of places I've been.

In front of me, a painting my husband has owned for years. My mother thinks it's ugly, but he and I both find it quite appealing. The bed I sit on as I type is an antique from his side of the family. He thinks it's ugly, but my mother and I both find it quite appealing.

There is a comfort in carrying the familiar with us. In the turblence of change, it helps to know that there are some constants, even if they are few.