Antiques

My mother used to collect antiques. Our house used to be filled with them. Everything from portraits of the President Washington and his wife, Martha, to old mirrors added a sense of history to our home. I loved it. Eventually she came to the conclusion that there is hardly any importance to material things, that something that was here a hundred years ago was no more important than something ten years old. She has slowly gotten rid of several cherished pieces of furniture.


However, I have hoarded several things that now make up the furniture in my bedroom. I love the history contained in antiques. I love that the mirror that hangs on my wall not only reflects my face today, but also reflected the faces of people long gone. That same mirror hung on the wall of someone else’s home, reflected the history of their family. I love to think of the secrets each thing holds. My dresser not only holds my clothes, but also held other’s clothes dating back heavens know how many years into the past.


I feel as though everything that I use, from my nightstand to my bed has a history, and has a past. By my using it I am only adding to that memoir, only adding years to its life. People may think I am ridiculous. Maybe I just love history too much, but I love the feeling that my life is somehow tied to the lives of those who lived so long before my birth was even thought of.