Things gathered. From the French brocante—dusty, tender, full of someone else’s yesterday.
Nothing matches. That’s not what I’m after I collect things I like and then I find a place in our home. Which is getting harder to do if you know what I mean.
A threadbare pillow. A ribbon, faded, once pink maybe, wrinkled the way time wrinkles. Soft, loved-worn over the years, pure cotton. The thought of someone’s hands busily stitching under candlelight dreaming of how it will look on her bed.
Each piece has an echo of hands that once touched them.
Sometimes a fragment, with stories half-told.
A drawer that doesn’t close.
A mirror that remembers another face.
Wood worn smooth by waiting.
Paint that has crackled, the image not quite clear unless you look beyond the surface.
They continue to speak—
Not to say hey Corey, but to stir something in me; Creativity – inspiration – history- a life once lived – cross paths, the best kind of recycling.
Maybe that’s why I keep them—these old things, these nearly forgotten things.
Because they remind me that presence is layered in the past, present and future intertwined.
When I go, they’ll go somewhere too.
Maybe to a stranger’s shelf,
maybe tucked in a box waiting for another kind of light.
For now, they share my life—
a brief companionship of touch and meaning.
Later, they’ll share another.
That’s the thing about old objects—
they never stop belonging.
They just keep passing through hands,
collecting stories,
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