Something Old

I know most people love new things. Things that are shiny and bright and untouched, brought home in crisp bags. Me? I love old junk. I love scouring flea markets for old suitcases and scoring the perfect thrift store dress. Old objects come pre-storied and their history appeals to me. Sometimes, like with my engagement ring, it’s my (new) family’s history, which makes it that much more meaningful, because I am the latest in a long line of women who have worn it proudly.

Other times it once belonged to a stranger and I have an abstract canvas on which to project. I actually prefer used books for this reason, bonus points for ones with inscriptions lovingly scrawled on the inside cover, To Margaret, on your birthday. I love you more with every year that passes. I imagine each person who has read them has left fingerprinted code behind to absorb, has seeded a bit of their karma into the pages. Our apartment is full of just such objects. Sometimes bought, but always discovered.