I’m standing in the mirror of my own life. Rooms filled with things but do they hold the same feelings for me as they do my host? Are they nothing more than trinkets from vacations, the random picture of family sitting on an end table? Just because they have been able to buy the stuff in my life, do they know what means something to me?
Why id there a Dream Theater poster sitting in the corner from a concert years ago? Were you there and remember the crowd, the smell of the venue, what about the people standing in front of me? How about what happened that night of the concert?
I’m walking into the kitchen and see the pretzel pan leaning against the pantry wall. Why do I need this? Do you know if I’ve used it. What my favorite type of pretzel would be?
My collection of Star Wars Lego sets sitting on a shelf rather than in a box like so many toys from my youth. Collecting dust, waiting for a new generation to play with them. Why these sets, rather than others?
Do you know why the closet sits half empty, the drawers the same? Why a stuffed Winnie the Pooh, long past its years as a child’s toy, wears a Red Sox shirt? How about the sweater I wear a little too often to be close to someone?
What is the story behind the sonogram in a frame, yet no other pictures of a child? Do you feel my grief, my pain, my loss? The stack of unused Daddy Projects that haven’t been opened in months, calling to me.
To someone they might just be their way of being a part of my life, but it’s about the emotions and experiences that give meaning to those things. So while they might have my refrigerator, do they know who picked it out? Why it was important to get something someone else could use?
You can clone a sheep, but it’s not the same. Life is different for everyone, every moment comprised of tiny variations in how we see something. It’s color how we feel about a subject. It changes our attitudes over time regarding so many topics.
You may have my stuff, but you don’t know me.