Despite being infected with sentimentalism, COVID-19 made me start thinking seriously about my material possessions. I quickly came to the conclusion that I didn't need most of the stuff I had laying around and of that stuff, I didn't even truly want all of it. Obviously, you can't just sell everything you own (though you would have a lot of extra cash) but I thought maybe I could clear some room.
Oh, has that been a difficult task.
Sometimes when I feel challenged, I awkwardly ask for help by creating a small pile or filling a box with items and present it to whoever enters my home next, with the instructions to throw it away at THEIR house.
And then sometimes, I feel determined. Mid-shelter-in-place it felt like my house was trying to swallow me - just like the time Smidge, my Chihuahua, tried to eat a whole scrambled egg in one bite - so I started tidying as best I could. I started with my desk and ended with two delightful little card boxes I just - surprise - couldn't throw away. I thought I could use them to wrap gifts but they never made it to my celebration supply closet, because when I went to throw away whatever trash I had pulled from the desk drawers, I found it lying on the ground.
A lone whisker.
It was short, thick and black. Not one of Cairo's slinky cat whiskers, it was definitely Smidge's. I had never seen the dog lose a whisker before so I saved it in a small plastic bag.
One of the two boxes I couldn't throw away became the perfect storage device for this whisker in a bag. I tucked it in neatly before hoisting out the old candy tin that housed reminders of my little Cairo.
Inside: a chocolate brown collar I bought for $3 at the discount store near my first apartment, his very first, his second, made from vintage fabric and his third, complete with a little bow tie; his previous rabies tags, all featuring the same crescent shape from where his little fish-shaped name tag rubbed the tint off the metal; yes, a disposable bag with a few slender black whiskers inside; another disposable bag with "Shields" written in someone else's handwriting, a vet tech's:
Okay, Ms. Shields, we just need you to sign this pick-up form for Cairo's dental and, oh, here's the tooth you brought in and... these are the teeth we took out today. We thought since you wanted the first one back, you'd want these too.
I had been too nervous to ask them to keep his teeth. He's not a second grader waiting for the tooth fairy, after all. He's a cat.
But he's my cat, and my first cat to boot.
I feel pressured to be more minimalistic, like I give physical entities too much power over my life. But I also like having my little trinkets, my reminders, my paper memories. Where is the line between sentimental and scavenger?
My line is here: one day we will all be gone, and maybe someone will want our stuff. My great-grandmother Dagmar's favorite table fits neatly in my foyer, and I cover water damage that bubbled the top with a runner; I can't play my great-grandmother Lila's electric organ, not just because it's broken but I also have no musical capabilities, but I know there's a perfect place somewhere for the thing. Meanwhile, Carly Simon's No Secrets spun on Grandpa Conrad's Pioneer component stereo just the other day, even though it was technically in mono since I haven't replaced the speaker wire on one side yet.
It sounds crazy, but I actually like my relative's broken gadgets and I don't plan on getting rid of them as I methodically try to clear the way. Not only do these items just sort of work like they're supposed to, but they also typically don't match my decor and they take up a bit of room. But I like to think that somewhere down the lineage, one of my weirdo relatives will think fondly of me for keeping cat teeth in a box.
I know I could remember these things without utilizing a sentimental storage unit. But there is something about holding on to those little pieces. Cats and dogs don't have heirloom jewelry or furniture to bequeath you. All they have to give this world is themselves.
And what a gift it is.
