Everyone Holds on to Something
By Rachel Waterman
Why is it so easy to get attached to tangible things? Maybe it’s a gift from a loved one. A blanket, or a favorite book. Maybe it’s cards, old photo albums, letters, or even a favorite toy from childhood. Everyone holds on to something. My mom is attached to crafts my sister and I made when we were younger, Halloween costumes we used to wear, and children’s books that we used to read together. My sister keeps cards and letters. A scrapbook she made in kindergarten still sits on her bookshelf. I have an ugly, bright orange shoe box I keep on the top shelf of one of my bedroom cabinets. I call it my box of important things. It’s mostly home to letters, cards, quotes, and illustrations. For some reason, I think these items will carry my memories for me, so I try to commemorate moments by holding onto tangible parts of them, only for the smallest assurance that maybe I’ll always remember.
I have an old photograph that I keep in my box of important things. It’s crumpled and bent, peeling at the edges, and looks more like the texture of an old brick or a wrinkled piece of cloth than a photograph. My mom gave me the photo a few days before I started first grade. I wanted to keep it safe even then, so I decided to put it in a Ziploc bag and stuff it into the front most pocket of my purple Tinkerbell backpack. That way, I would have it with me the following week when I made my way down to Room 101 at the end of the hall.
I can still smell the aroma of glue and construction paper that brings me back to my elementary school hallway. I was a nervous, timid first grader, anxious to walk through school with the big kids and to be there for the whole day instead of half of the day. The new routine made my stomach spin, and it all felt overwhelming. But I had my picture. It made me feel safe and like I wasn’t alone. It was as if the photograph was confronting the changes with me. This small four by six print I had tucked away in my backpack held a sweet sense of assurance that there was always something familiar I could go back to. If things became too much, I didn’t have to be at school; I could be at Disney World with my family instead.
April 17, 2006. A family of four is sitting on a green bench positioned in front of a weathered stone wall. My dad sits on the right with his navy United States hat, sunglasses, a grey Mickey Mouse shirt, and a fanny pack. My mom sits next to him on the left. Dark brown hair, oval glasses, the same earrings she has always worn. She’s wearing a blue-collared shirt with a darker blue windbreaker. I’m sitting on her lap, sporting my typical pigtail hairstyle with my favorite pink Winnie the Pooh sweatshirt, a gray skort that used to be my sister’s, and long socks with Skechers. I also have a fanny pack clipped around my waist. Surprisingly, the camera was quick enough to capture me smiling nicely for once. My sister is sitting on the left close to our mom. Sarah is wearing pink and light green camo capris and her pink and white Bobby Jack sweatshirt. She looks patient as usual with her arms folded across her lap. We were waiting to explore Magic Kingdom on one of our first family vacations, undoubtedly smelling of sunscreen and the Honey Nut Cheerios we had stowed away in our fanny packs.
I found the photograph again after abruptly coming home from college last spring. I was putting away some new letters and photos into my ugly, orange box when I saw the peeling edge of the old family photograph near the bottom. To touch something I used to cling to in another time almost felt foreign to me. Rather than comfort, I was hit by a wall of nostalgia. I wanted to jump into the photo and find solace in my six-year-old mind. To relive that adventure. To go back to a time when the familiar didn’t seem so elusive.
Although this photo doesn’t comfort me the same way it did when I was a first grader, it still serves its purpose. In the photograph, I see people who have each changed in their own way and am reminded of how unfamiliar life has become as time keeps relentlessly pushing me forward. But, in the middle of these changes and unknowns, this picture still grounds me. I still find myself transported to a different time when life seemed simpler, and I haven’t forgotten.
