Home: Where Old is Never Outdated

I think it started with Grandpa's gramophone:

a silky-wooden behemoth 5-feet tall;

doors that opened on granite records and crumbling files;

heavy lid that opened like a top-hat to the turntable inside;

it was also a space-waste; outdated;

an oversize lamp-stand topped with a doily.

A corpse kept around for sentimental reasons--

--until I played it one Christmas.

It was suddenly a delightful centerpiece

of '50s Christmas music, laughter, and discovery.

My shabby pink couch is from the '50s, due for reupholstery.

My table was my great-grandparent's;

My mother built that chair as a high-school project--

it has her name written in her hand on the under seat.

That shelf was hers in college, made from '70s orange crates.

My dishes were my mother's first set of her marriage.

My glassware is from the Depression.

And I intend to use every one of these

Beautiful, Delicate, Valuable, Imperfect old things

Until they die a good, natural death.

Home is where these old things have purpose, are used.

Home is where you CAN'T outlive your purpose;

Even when purposes change, you always belong.

(This is also how you identify if you are NOT home.)

Not using great-grandma's tea set for fear of breakage

Isn't too different than abandoning her to a nursing home.

Do we really treasure something that only collects dust?

Perhaps our obsession with antiques only as decor

Speaks to our preference that the elderly, slower, less beautiful

Take a back seat to newer, shinier, faster.

But I want to die after a good, long use.

I don't want to become someone's knick-knack shelf.

I want to still be playing music when I am old.

I think old things want that, too.

So I fill my home with old lamps that I light on gloomy days

When I crack an inherited vase, I put flowers in it.

When a child breaks the china, I only cry

The way one does when one says goodbye to a dear auntie.

The love is worth the risk. Always.

Home is where you live long, well, and have purpose. Always.