The Heirloom

Sometimes things just fall our out of our grasps. When the rains come the heirloom you held so tightly could fall through wet hands without hesitation, forgetting who it was for or why it was there. It’s only wish is to meet the ground, and meet it it will, with a crash or even a simple pin drop; earth is an old friend to everything on it, and it pulls everything into its embrace for as far as it can reach.

But the heirloom is only a symbol, a memory we hold onto an object that might otherwise have meant nothing. The heirloom is a vessel within which we hold a trigger for a person long gone, friends far away, chances lost or maybe even chances to come. Even still, the memory is still in your brain as long as the heirloom remains a trigger, and as such it serves to fulfill a certain sentiment, one that we may forget for our own convenience when we want to live our lives as if nothing has stopped us in our paths.

But everyone has stumbled at some point, and to pretend we haven’t is a disservice to ourselves and the memory the heirloom represents. There’s a reason it sits there in your room, there’s a reason it stares at you when you feel alone. To pretend that memory didn’t change you is almost arrogance. You are fluid, and when something disturbs your waters you will mold around it. We’re all changed by what has been and we will be changed by what’s to come, even those of us who appear as stubborn as boulders are as malleable as those who wear a different face every night, a different name for a different place, a different life for a different person, all within the same form.

If we stopped pretending we’re all so different, perhaps we would begin to understand each other better.

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