The Things We Hold Dear

A few months ago, I found myself crying sorrowfully on the side of an obscure mountain road, about a quarter mile off a busy highway.

I was driving home alone after having dropped my kids off at summer camp, and I had just pulled over to frantically search for my coffee cup which had freakishly popped out of a cupholder and was flung to the back of the car during a very rough entry to the highway.

Truly, nothing describes this phenomenon better than the word "freakish". I had no idea that objects could be ejected from their cradle and flung in such a trajectory when a car descends into a curving highway while gathering speed.

But I am no physicist, so what do I know?

I proceeded to drive down this curvy highway, all the while listening to my precious cup rolling around on the floor behind me, worried about its state (and relieved that it was empty).

Unable to bear the suspense and hoping to rescue it, I quickly exited the highway at the first opportunity.

When I was finally able to pull over safely, I rushed to the rear passenger door and peered in before gingerly opening the door, fearing the cup might fall out. It didn't, thankfully, and as I reached for it, I was glad to see it was intact. I held it in my hands and looked it over more carefully, looking for small cracks or chips.

None were found, and I let out a breath I had been holding in.

As I climbed into the driver's seat holding my cup, tears started to fall. I was so very relieved, but I had also been so very worried. I couldn't believe my luck.

You see, this cup was a gift from Mike... from who-knows-when. I am guessing it was during the early years of parenthood, when memories are a little blurrier due, in large part, to utter exhaustion. Exhaustion that causes normally coordinated and not-accident-prone people to have accidents. Like Mike accidentally breaking my favorite coffee mug -- no, the only mug I drank out of -- while washing dishes.

In his remorse, he promised to purchase a replacement. An even better one, he declared. Prettier.

So the search began. He pored through listings on Amazon and sent me screenshots.

I rejected them all, somewhat incredulous at the big deal this had become.

I also jokingly wondered, out loud, how much he was willing to pay for the replacement.

"For your only cup? There is no limit."

Mind you, the cup he broke was a cheap ol' thing I got at a white elephant gift exchange. I loved it for its shape and the beautiful floral design.

In the end, he purchased an even more beautiful coffee cup. It cost him roughly $25, which to me, seemed exhorbitant. But it was beautiful. Too beautiful to call a "mug", although it was definitely mug-sized. Had it not been for its definitively modern size and design, one could mistake it for vintage/ antique china: made of bone china, ornate, and gold-rimmed. On the bottom, an insignia, followed by the words "Royal Albert, England".

This is a photo Mike took of my cup, his test subject when trying out a new lightbox he had purchased for product photography. He considered it, by far, the most beautiful object in our kitchen. I couldn't agree more.

From that point forward, it has been my coffee cup. Houseguests knew this because Mike would tell them they were welcome to any of the things in the kitchen, but not that cup.

It was the cup he poured my coffee in on most mornings.

And this was the cup I brought with me on this road trip to camp. The one that miraculously did not break.

I know what you're thinking. Why didn't you just use a regular thermos like a normal person?

I don't really know. I usually do. In fact, people who know me often see me holding a navy blue Contigo thermos.

But that day, I chose to take my special cup on the road. It fit neatly (and I thought, snuggly) into an expandable cupholder. And until that freakish incident, it rested there.

Perhaps I did it because it was Father's Day, and I was missing him more than usual. And because I was aching for him on behalf of my children who were, by the way, going away for 6 whole days.

Perhaps I was feeling lonely and already missing our kids.

I write about this now because I have noticed that although I am normally not a very sentimental person -- not with objects, anyway -- I have become a lot more so in this last year.

This sentimentality has crept up on me. I used to be the type of person that feels no guilt for purging items out of a closet. For chucking kid projects into the trash or donating/ giving away "well loved" items.

This attitude comes from a long history of having led a transient life in my formative years, leading up to our immigration to the U.S. with only 3 suitcases, combined, to our names (my mother's and mine).

I have said goodbye to too many of my personal belongings in my life, I have learned not to attach emotion to objects.

Except for now. Life after Mike.

So many things feel too precious all of a sudden. The cup being just one example. My rings, a second. The list goes on.

And I am reminded of their fragility.

A button popping out of a pajama top he had gifted me. The fraying of a shirt that once belonged to him that I now wear to sleep. A photo I had printed on a mediocre printer that has faded.

I am shocked at my sorrow when I think about losing these things.

This is not me, I think.

I also think of all the things I plan to give my children when they are older. Things that belonged to their father that I think they might want to have, which, for the time-being, I cannot yet entrust to them.

Objects attached to Mike hold a higher value. They are priceless because they are tangible reminders that he was here. That he was loved by us. And that he loved us back.

It feels like idolatry to put so much value in these things, so I remind myself to hold on to them lightly in my heart.

But I know that I will mourn their loss when they break. Or tear. Or disappear.

I know that, for many of them, this is sadly inevitable.