The Things
Donald Hall
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
—de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore—
that I've cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial—a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother's rocker,
a dead dog's toy—valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother's souvenirs of trips
with my dead father, Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
My favorite things have very little to do with what is considered valuable or of monetary value. I have a pair of jeans, my Barbie jeans, that I wore all through high school, college, and until the second month of my pregnancy. I can't throw them out. I don't want to starve and exercise myself into submission so that they'll fit either. I keep them because they're a relic of my past life.
Although they're not considered things, I love my scars. Some scars are from childhood and have grown longer and larger as I've gotten older. Each scar has a story and one niece in particular loves scar stories. It's interesting to note that if you ask about a scar, and show interest, you'll get to time travel back to how and when, and you'll come away with a great story.
I have favorite rocks that I've picked up here and there. Some rocks are from places I've never visited, but have been brought as gifts. One from Henry VIII's Hampton Court, another from Hadrian's wall. The majority are from oceans I have walked. I like the idea of collecting oceans. I can see a window shelf of beautiful jars filled with water from all the world's oceans.
What are your favorite things?
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