My Father's Things Are More Than Clutter — They’re Memories of a Life Lived

Life, as it happens, is also an endless cycle, one of both cruelty and joy, of things that we value for no other reason than that they bind us together and hold stories of who we once were.

Things are not always the enemy.

I looked around my mother’s apartment and down into the box, swallowing the lump in my throat and holding back tears ready to race down my cheeks — because they weren’t just things. They were him. They were my father. They were pieces of his life.

Hair holds memory, but so do inanimate objects. That’s why we hold onto heirlooms, keep photos, make qu