Attachment

Attachment

I’m very attached to this scarf. What a strange thing to say! After all, it’s not tied to me or glued to my hand. Except…

Even without looking at it or touching it–if I appear to ignore it for days at a time–it’s here with me. It’s connected to me, attached by invisible strings of memory and emotion to my mind and my heart, to my very soul.

I look at it with eyes that span decades, seeing it adorn my mother in far-off places and times. The threads of the fabric are intimately woven with the threads of my memory, inseparable.

When I hold it I am holding my own history, holding a piece of my mother close to me, holding her even though she’s been gone all these years. Gone from life perhaps, but still very much alive in me.

Objects and memory are entwined, carefully packaged, wrapped in each other so that they will be protected and preserved.

Of course it’s still a scarf, not a museum piece, and I wear it often when winter’s chill is in the air. With its gorgeous crimson, russet and bronze, and the silky sheen of its fabric, it whispers seductively to my sense of beauty and I love it in its own right.

It would feel wrong to let it languish in a drawer, unseen. My mother was very sociable, having a wide circle of good friends, and enjoyed being around people. To see and be seen. And so it feels fitting that I wear this scarf, let it be seen.

Objects can be cherished and cared for while also being used. To me their value comes not from being pristine, but from having a history. Each association, each memory, each attachment adds some intangible value beyond price.

In the case of my mother’s scarf–now my scarf–the value might only be fully apparent to me. Others might admire it as a desirable accessory, but its deeper connections are mine alone. To me it’s unique, priceless, irreplaceable.

I could never let it go, except to my daughter in her turn. It represents a family bond back through time. This object is tied in to my fondest memories, embroidered with the love between my mother and me, and I’m far too attached to part with it.

She Sits Alone and Thinks

She Sits Alone and Thinks

Day 16 of 30 Days of Poetry

Here we are, on the homeward leg. Past the halfway point now and heading to the finish line. I’m enjoying this writing prompt I came up with very much. Who knows what December might bring: keep an eye out!

A single poppy, flat as if it has been pressed and preserved, lying across a neutral background
She sits alone and thinks of days
Old voices echo in her ears
While feelings light upon her face
Then fall among the dust of years

She sits alone and thinks of one
An empty space within her heart
Reminds her of a time far gone
A promise that was torn apart

She sits alone and thinks of now
Of all that she's seen come to pass
Of when she used to dream of how
Her beau would come back to his lass

She sits alone and thinks of him
The news that broke confirmed her fears
That fate would snatch him on a whim
Her smile is brittle through her tears
Familiar Fields

Familiar Fields

Day 6 of 30 Days of Poetry

A view across a field of ripe barley bordered by woodland under a blue sky with wispy clouds
I gaze over familiar fields
With eyes focused on the past,
And if I turn my head just so
I know I'll catch a glimpse
Of those I thought lost.

In that fleeting instant,
Magical space between moments
Where past and present mingle,
The lost are found once more
And I can feel complete.