I like old things.
Which is weird because I don’t like wrinkled paper. I always flip to a new clean sheet. I can not tolerate pens with the ends chewed or a pencil sharpened down to a nub. I like fresh pencils and if a pen has a missing or mangled cap, I throw it out. Those are just pens and paper. Disposable.
Pretty much everything else, I like old. Old doors, creaky cabinets, aged barns, rusted keys, and hotel silver. It’s weighted.
The idea that others have come before me is comforting. I’m not as scared knowing that women have done this before. They have raised children, gotten older, wanted more, loved and died. Old things remind me of that. They help me feel solid, in my place, and somehow peaceful.
There is an energy in aged things. Maybe it’s the spirit of the people that used them before me, but there is…
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