Every once in a while I’m reminded of things I once owned. Stuff I bought or received as a gift, but that I’ve thrown away, because they were broken or considered useless, or that I’ve sold or simply lost. The memories of such things somehow cut like a knife, because I feel so much self-pity and remorse for not owning them anymore. Just a few of many examples, all from when I was a child:

The alarm clock I was given by my dad. The ticking was excruciating and I only used it twice. Then I put it away and eventually sold to one of the neighbour’s children.

The cuddly toy mouse that was one of a set. It was a girl mouse with a pink checked apron. I gave it away to a collection for poor children in Romania. The other half of the set, a grumpy fat boy mouse, still sits out his lonely days in my parents’ attic.

The enormous amount of key rings that were collected by my aunt when she was young. I sold them for less than nothing at a local fair. It was a massive collection. In retrospect I should have kept them and sold them to a real collector, not a few screaming children, who have probably all thrown away the key ring they bought at least a decade ago.

I could just cry thinking of these things. In fact, right now I am. But sometimes I just have to think of them and feel that stone in my stomach. It’s only for a short moment, but at that moment I truly miss them all. They should have still been a part of me - despite probably being packed in boxes in the attic if they were.

I must admit, it has scarred me. Nowadays I find it almost impossible to throw something away I have received as a gift. I believe I started hoarding things which I have emotional memories with roughly ten years ago.

Just yesterday in IKEA, Matt and I were piling up cheap goodies to decorate our home and we came across the kitchen department.
“Didn’t you want new potholders? These are quite nice.”
“Yes, ours are disgustingly old. Buy those. They’re good.”
“But I won’t throw away the old ones, you know that, right? Because they’re handmade by my grandma. I’ll wash them and put them away in a box in the attic.”

When Matt moved in with me we had dozens of this kind of dialogue.
“Shouldn’t we buy a new television table?”
“Can’t. This one is handmade by my dad.”
“Oh…”

And just two seconds ago I folded away a single bed duvet cover I was given by my dad ages and ages ago for, if I remember correctly, finally stopping sucking my thumb. We don’t even own a single bed!

I look over the top of my laptop out of the window. On the windowsill stands a jam jar with inside it the remainders of two glass Christmas ornaments. They were part of a few ornaments that belonged to my parents and used to hang in their tree, before I could have them for my own tree. I have lifelong memories of their existence, but they broke. And I just can’t throw them away.

I can’t throw anything away with which I have a strong emotional bond or which I got as a gift. So it lies around the house, most of it in the attic, luckily, but some of it in actual eyesight. Don’t get strange ideas about my house: it’s not crammed with heaps of junk. Most memories are just standing where they should be or neatly packed away in boxes.

But even if I’ll never use it again I like just having it. Coming across it every once in a while and indulge in the memories that surround them. Yes, indeed, hoarding makes the heart grow fonder.

Today is the day to honour those things I don’t own anymore. The bits and pieces I lost along the way. I wish you luck at being the cosmic debris you’ve become. Happy trails to you.

Column published by Cecile on Monday, October 8th, 2007.

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