Slippery Soap, a character from Blue’s Clues, still lives on the edge of my bathtub. He is smaller than he used to be, worn down from years of use, his lavender color faded and his edges rounded smooth. My son is college-aged now, but if I pick his figure up with wet hands, he still slides easily along the tub, as if motion is his natural state.

When my son was three, baths were hard. He was afraid of the tub, but he was even more upset by what came after. When the tips of his fingers wrinkled in the water, he panicked. He didn’t like how his fingertips looked. He didn’t like that his body changed without warning. Each bath ended in distress.

So I made up the Wrinkle People.

The Wrinkle People, I told him, only came out after a bath. They were shy and kind and only appeared for a short time. They lived in the wrinkles at the tips of his fingers and disappeared as soon as the skin smoothed out again. The only way to meet them was to get clean. If you waited quietly, they would come.

I kept my hands in the water while he bathed so the Wrinkle People would visit me too. At the end of each bath, I lifted my son from the water, wrapped him in a towel, and we waited together. When the wrinkles appeared, we touched the tips of our fingers together. I told him how lucky we were that the Wrinkle People had come for both of us, that they could feel connected, that they were part of our family too.

The problem was getting him into the tub in the first place. My son loved Blue’s Clues. He watched it closely, memorized it, acted out all the characters. Slippery Soap was his favorite. He would imitate him, shouting “Whoa!” when things slipped or fell. I noticed this, and I followed it.

I bought the little Blue’s Clues bath toys so Slippery Soap could come into the tub with him. Slippery Soap was how I got him into the water at all. We both knew Slippery Soap loved baths. I gave him a voice. Slippery Soap slid along the porcelain, shouting “Whoa!” when the water splashed. He needed company. He needed a friend. He knew about the Wrinkle People and could help us find them.

Once my son was in the water, the conversation began. My son talked to Slippery Soap. Slippery Soap talked back. “Whoa!” my son said. “Whoa!” Slippery Soap answered. I kept my hands in the water the entire time so the Wrinkle People would visit me too.

Baths stopped being a battle. Slippery Soap did his job quietly and well. The Wrinkle People came and went. My son grew older. The rituals changed.

Slippery Soap stayed.

Years passed. My son found new ways to move through the world. He learned how to stand on a stage, how to listen and respond, how to trust timing and instinct. He is now enrolled in a comedy improv B.A. program at Columbia College in Chicago. I don’t trace a straight line from Slippery Soap to where he is now, but I know the Wrinkle People belong to that story too.

And to tell you a secret, sometimes even after all these years, when I’m sitting in the tub, I pick up Slippery Soap and softly say, “Whoa,” just to remind myself of all that we’ve been through.

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Nettie Reynolds is an essayist and playwright based in Chicago. Her work explores caregiving, family life, and the quiet rituals that shape how people learn to live with one another. She writes personal essays about attention, adaptation, and the ordinary objects that carry memory. Nettie is finishing her MFA in Creative Nonfiction through The Sena Jeter Naslund-Karen Mann Graduate School of Writing at Spalding University.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading about possessions:

Ode to a wax cherry gift by , AFTER/WORDS (Note)

“Your Kids Will Inherit a Beautiful Archive of a Childhood That Never Happened” by

“Five Ways I Remember My Mother” by , Bite-Sized Storytelling Boost

“Family Stuff” by , The Loneliest Places

“What I Really Want for Mother’s Day is a Tray” by , Our Amagansett House

“The Art of Gifting Thoughtfully” by , Folded Napkins

“I paid $1,000 to get my house under control” by Julie Kling, Business Insider

“The perfect shopping day in New York” by and , The Scumbler

“Isabel Allende and Her Mother Told Each Other (Almost) Everything” by Anna Martin, The New York Times’ Modern Love podcast

“Lost and Found in the Subway: Dentures Galore” by James Barron, The New York Times

It’s been said that a picture is worth a thousand words. It’s true. Something visceral happens when we view a beautiful image. Something emotional, deep-seated, often physical, happens. It’s like being suddenly awestruck.

That is how I felt when I found two long, forgotten photographs of my mother, tucked inside a file box, buried for almost 70 years.

I’d gone to Sun City to help clear out her home when she died suddenly in 2015. Later, I was told she sat down after phoning a friend and, in a second, was gone. She didn’t suffer. For that, I am grateful.

My mother and I had a very difficult relationship my entire life. She was a demanding and critical parent, often verbally abusive. Growing up as an only child, she had been spoiled and fit all the key points of a narcissistic personality. She sometimes blamed her plight on her two young daughters. Her constant consumption of alcohol didn’t help matters any. After a binge, she often said the most disturbing things to us.

She once told me I was an ugly, scrawny infant at birth. WTF?

One night, on a summer break from college, after consuming staggering amounts of booze, she pointed her finger at me and said, “I know why you’re so f+++ked up. I left you home alone when you were a baby whenever I went to the laundromat.”

“Charming,” I retorted. “You’d have lost custody if done in this day and age.”

The night I was getting ready for my senior prom, she barged into the bathroom and started bullying me about my flat chest. She then said her body was ruined after my birth. Her sagging breasts were my fault.

Who says these things to a daughter?

So why couldn’t I part with the two professional photographs of this woman, which had been taken by a Des Moines Register newspaper photographer in the 1940s, that I discovered and hauled home to Long Island after her house was ready to sell?

Both photos were ruined, almost beyond repair: rolled up, riddled with cracks, rips, and age spots. Still, there she is, a young, lovely twenty-something posing for a local Des Moines, Iowa artist for extra money. The clippings pasted to the back were proof.

Sitting in an old cane chair, she’s draped in an exquisite, embroidered silk kimono, her thick black hair streaming down her back, a celestial beauty, looking somber while the artist works.

I was compelled to save them.

A new photo shop had opened in town, so I called to ask if they did digital photograph repair.

They did. I took them in for restoration with no concern about the cost.

A few weeks later, a shopkeeper delivered them to my home. The restoration was excellent, far beyond what I had imagined, without a single flaw, just perfect.

I quickly logged on to Amazon and ordered two 18" x 22" large black wooden frames complete with matting. They were the ideal complement to my mother’s black-and-white 1940’s photographs.

Everyone said I was a fool for having these ancient photos repaired, especially since the woman was no longer living, and what’s more, paying about $200 a piece for the restoration.

I disagreed. I needed to honor this woman who bore me, as difficult as she may have been. I simply needed documentation of what could have been before her life got in the way, before age, motherhood, and alcohol were her undoing.

Today, these two photographs of my mother now grace the walls of my apartment. I admire them every day.

Sometimes people ask, “Who is that lovely girl?”

“That’s my mother,” I say, “when she was young, hopeful, and full of promise.”

Despite our tangled past, I’m glad I own them. They depict a brief moment in time. They are a valued, tangible homage to the woman who gave me life.

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Dianne Moritz, a former teacher in Los Angeles, is a bestselling picture book author with five published books, hundreds of poems for kids, and poetry, essays and memoir pieces for adults. Her book, 1, 2, 3 By the Sea, has sold over 117,500 copies and is still selling after twelve years. She has joined the ranks of Chicken Soup authors, with her essay “The Late Bloomer,” in their book, Just Say Yes, released in July 2024. Follow Dianne on Facebook and Substack.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading about possessions:

“My first crack at Swedish Death Cleaning” by , @ Home in the World

“Getting rid of what I love” by , Spark

“Shoplifters of the world, unite!” by Cleanup on Aisle Five author Ann Larson at

“A White A-4 Paper That Warms Me Like an Old Friend’s Hug” by at

“How my commonplace notebook has enriched my experience of reading” by , A reading life

“The baggage I carry” by , My Inner Monologue

“The Biscuit Tin Dossier” by

In the first week of January, I receive a package in the mail. It’s from my mother, and my stomach twists when I pick up the hand-sized bubble parcel.

As is our custom, I video call her to open it. She is visibly nervous, which only confirms my suspicions about the belated Christmas gift.

I’ve always had a problem wearing jewelry. That is, I don’t wear it. Any piece, even if I bought it myself, fully enamored with it and filled with ambitions to change my ways, only lasts a few weeks at most before it’s finally set down and forgotten or relegated to the “special occasions” box.

As with anything about me, this isn’t entirely true. I have seven piercings, each with a semi-permanent, plain, black or steel installation. But when it comes to other common adornment locations—my neck, wrists, fingers, even ankles—they’re unoccupied more often than not. That hasn’t stopped my mother; the piercings give her hope.

I pull the palm-sized box out of the mailer, and she immediately launches into her explanation. It’s more or less the same explanation as always.

About every other year since I moved out at 17, I’ve gotten something like this: girly necklaces, elegant rings, and delicate anklets, all in bids for me to keep something sentimental on my body. She’s desperate to have this connection with me—something matching, something meaningful. I refused to get a matching tattoo of a stock image raven with her.

This year, she says again that she knows I don’t really wear jewelry, but she thinks this one is more my style. I suppose she’s right. It’s more androgynous and rugged than the last attempt, being a thin, braided black rope with an unassuming brushed silver and glass pendant. When I slide it on next to my watch, a thing I don’t really like to wear either, but need for practical reasons, it doesn’t look a bit out of place. In the pendant is a tiny photo; If I look through it just right (“or use your phone’s camera!” encourages the tiny card in the box), I can see a tiny picture of her and me inside. Well-practiced at it by now, I hold back a grimace. I don’t like that picture of us, and I don’t like the bracelet.

I do what I do every year this happens. Before we hang up, I thank her and I tell her I’ll wear it. Maybe this time I mean it. I’m 1,500 miles and an ocean away and she hasn’t managed to get past her anxiety onto a plane since I was in high school. I know where the desperation for connection is coming from.

Safe from the camera, I look at the shipping price printed by the post office larger than my address on the package. I’m back in school and unemployed. The shipping alone could have covered a week of groceries. Three months ago, everyone asked me what I wanted as a gift. I told her the same as I told everyone else: I just need cash right now. The grandmother I still talk to sent me money and wool socks. Even my father, notorious for insisting on unwanted gifts that demonstrate no understanding of his kids’ actual interests, sent me what I’d asked for along with my favorite candy. But my mother? My mother sent me the same gift I’ve never wanted any of the times she’s tried, no matter what it looked like.

In some squirmy part of my brain, someone points out that it’s a little different this year. For the first time, she can’t get in the car and stubbornly drive herself and her dog hundreds of miles to come see me on holidays. In some sharp, irritated part of my mind, something points out that this should make it easier not to wear her familiar present. She’d never be able to know.

Despite that logic, I wear it. I’ve been wearing it. The stupid, expensive thing. I hope it breaks. I hope I lose it in the frigid sea. I hope it snaps on a summer hike when I’m arm-deep in a berry bush. If she’s lucky, it’ll break but I won’t lose it and I’ll throw it in the keepsake box. If she’s not, it’ll be another piece of sentimental litter somewhere. Either way, she’ll buy me another one, and then I won’t want to wear that one. But maybe, by then, I’ll have a new excuse not to.

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R.R. Blackwood isn’t sure they exist in the real world, and they’re not sure they know how to write anything but research papers. That doesn’t keep them from trying, in desperate defiance of the STEM-centric world they’ve ended up in. Their personal writing was published once, when some adults were impressed by the poetic capacity of a child, but hadn’t dared to try again until they’d grown some skin that could take a few rejections without breaking out in hives. They have a potted plant collection, a caffeine addiction, and a hard-won, white-knuckle optimism about the future.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading about possessions:

“The Photo That Changed Me” by

“In case of fire, pack a life.” by

“Please Pick Up, We Found Your Scathing Letter” by , My Sandwich, My Choice

“I was one vintage Alfa Romeo away from being a completely different person” by

“Why You Still Have Nothing To Wear.” by , Consider This

“How many different places have you called home?” by , Settling

“I found a stranger’s journal. Its contents changed me.” by Liz McCaffery, The Boston Globe

I love my mother. We talk often. She celebrates my victories, listens to my whining, and only sometimes still worries about me—a nearly-forty-year-old woman—being out after dark.

That’s why I bought a sword. Sort of.

My mother is afraid of knives because of how one was used—literally—at her throat. She’s afraid of a lot of things because of the childhood she survived, with the kinds of abuse people don’t like sharing.

Parts of her split, but not all of her. And she grew claws. They show whenever she or her children are in danger, real or not. I now understand that, to someone who’s experienced trauma, even everyday distresses can activate those deep-rooted survival-honed parts of the brain. And children are great at causing everyday distresses. In the distance of one breath, my mother can be a gentle breeze and a hurricane. I learned to walk on eggshells to please her because life became safer when she was happy and obeyed.

Growing up, we never kept a sharp knife in the house. We owned one large chef’s knife that was dull as a spoon with dents on its spine from where my mother used a honing rod to whack it through vegetables rather than sharpen the blade.

So she wasn’t happy when I, her 13-year-old daughter, asked for the money to buy a mail-order sword from a medieval enthusiast catalogue. It was a sleek, historical replica of an Irish hand-and-a-half sword with a full tang (a metal shank continuing the blade through the handle), real leather grip, and durable spring steel. At the time, in the early 2000s, it cost nearly three hundred dollars—a lavish price for a kid who spent Christmas money before she got it.

At least I had the good sense to ask for a well-made, historical piece that would last a lifetime rather than an overpriced souvenir. Knowing how much I loved medieval history, I thought there was a chance she would be willing to gift me the blade. Of course, she wasn’t, but she invited me to use my own money. If I had any.

I saw her move and parried. She thought she could thwart my plans without being the villain because she didn’t believe I could save enough. So I did the logical thing: I opened a bank account and an Excel spreadsheet to track my savings.

For one year, I noted every five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bill handed to me. I rolled coins and returned pop cans. Every cent went into the spreadsheet. Any other item my mom said I’d need to purchase myself returned to the store shelf. I needed that sword. I needed it, I thought, because it was cool, beautiful, interesting. I needed it to help me pretend I was Queen Gwenivere, knighting Lancelot, or to pretend I was the knight herself. I needed it to cut a hole from where I was to anywhere else. I needed it.

At the time, I couldn’t conceive of a mother who could hurt me. I danced around the eye of the hurricane, thinking its raking claws were there to keep me safe while they mauled others. Sometimes I tested comments like, “Maybe the cashier didn’t deserve to be yelled at,” and her wide eyes turned to me. More often, she aimed her words at herself, like a gun to her head. I was right, she couldn’t hurt me.

I felt loved. She’d flatter herself with how smart and creative her daughter was, but when those words were tested, a new reality formed. Every ask to walk to a friend’s house involved a fight. She hyperventilated at the thought of her naive child walking alone past the woods. Her daughter couldn’t imagine the killers lurking in our family-friendly suburb. She’s weak. She can’t protect herself.

Eventually, the panic bled into me. Driving became a constant test of my likeliness to kill myself. Adulthood became a measure of the ways in which I was unprepared. What if it snowed? What if I lost my way? What if someone really was in the woods? How could I best life’s challenges? I’ll never know. I didn’t try.

* * *

In the quiet safety of my bedroom, I made up worlds where I wielded wands and lightsabers. A sword—a real-life sword could be the tool to keep me safe in her dangerous world. Swords made people strong. Dragonslayers carried them—knights, soldiers, underestimated hobbits.

After a year, my coffers were finally full. I mailed a check for the weapon’s value, plus shipping, handling, and tax. Two months later, my mother hovered, thin-lipped, by the doorway as I carefully unpackaged the long cardboard box. She couldn’t watch, but she couldn’t leave me unattended either.

I pulled the sword from an oiled bag and delicately wiped off the protective grease. It really was sharp. Lifting the blade, I learned I’d need to build muscle to hold it outright.

“Ay, Dios! Be careful!” My mother flinched. I smiled.

* * *

I don’t display it. Twenty-four years later, it sits in the corner of my office, where mostly only I see it. I never made time for a combat class or bought a plaque to hang it over the mantle.

Everyone who finds it marvels. Is that yours? Is it real? So cool. It is. But that’s not why I keep it. It’s a promise of who I want to be when I grow up—someone strong enough to cut their own way through the woods at the end of the street—someone strong enough to defy their mother. I don’t want her claws. I want to buy my own sword.

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Catherine Cornell writes poetry, essays, and unfinished fantasy novels. For “work” she edits mental health writing and fiction, formats magazine layouts, and entertains people experiencing cognitive decline. You can see some of her work in Dreamweaver Narratives Magazine. In a past career, she won awards for her theatre set designs. She currently owns the sword and three really cool daggers.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“What’s Your Prized Possession?” by , A Need to Know Basis

“Hi, my name is Ed and I am a memory hoarder” by

“The mess behind the scenes” by , Spilling the “T” with Tiffany Dawn

“thrift month: secondhand shopping isn’t the problem, fast fashion is” by , unflattering

“Keepology” by

“I Feel So Sorry for My A.I. Sunglasses” by Sam Anderson, The New York Times

“Groom Who Found Rare Pokémon Cards Able to Pay for Entire Wedding After Selling Them at Auction” by Charna Flam, People

My brother Paul and I navigated childhood for twelve years under the same roof, but in adolescence, our family unraveled and spun apart. We have travelled wildly different paths since then. Our infrequent conversations could be contained in a single day in which we failed to find common ground. Then the omicron variant of the COVID-19 virus put a period on the possibility that we ever could. Paul’s death at sixty-four meant that we would never share an actual laugh, compare our children’s endearing eccentricities, commiserate about, well, anything from our father’s heavy drinking days to our lesbian mother’s contributions to women’s liberation.

I will never know his demons—forged out of some extreme notion of Christian good and evil—that led him to expel me, his lesbian sister, and our mother from his family pantheon. And he will never know mine—a murky stew of self-doubt and recriminations that I can never be good enough to deserve love, that people I love always leave.

Once, when we were both middle-aged parents, we briefly overlapped at our dying father’s house. We were cleaning up the apples that had fallen and were fermenting beneath a pair of heirloom Rhode Island Greenings who reliably birthed them year after year, their sharp, vinegary smell stinging our sinuses, sun glinting through the canopy and dappling the soupy blobs underneath like butter on an apple crisp. Every attempt to speak of something I thought safe—what kind of car did he want to buy? Did he do any fishing now that he lived on the Gulf Coast?—somehow always ended with Paul’s admonishments that we (I was never sure if he meant humanity in general, or Mom and me specifically) had been expelled from the Garden of Eden and that there was only one true path to redemption, which was to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as our savior, a path I had not taken.

This was not a conversation; it was an impromptu hellfire and brimstone sermon delivered by my little brother more at me than to me; it was a repeat of the one he delivered at my mother’s deathbed a decade before. Where I saw nature’s bounty and the sacred cycle of life, he saw eternal damnation. There was no opening for conversation. I fell to shoveling up rotten apples in silence. As siblings, as members of a family, albeit a divorced and reconstituted set of families, we more closely resembled the family shrapnel than far-flung loved ones.

Words, in the end, failed us.

And yet. When we were teens and no longer living together, Paul took a shop class in school. At Christmas, one that required visits to two parental households in two states, Paul presented me with a beautiful chopping block: light and dark strips of maple and oak that he had expertly cut, sanded, and painstakingly pieced. The edges were rounded and the bottom was fitted with four rubber feet. I don’t remember what I gave him. It was our last Christmas together.

I have started every meal of my adult life on Paul’s cutting board: five decades, nine households, and an infinity of recipes. It is redolent with thousands of cloves of garlic. When I had in-laws, I had to remove bags of groceries and purses with nasty bottoms from it because it seemed to call incoming dinner guests to place such things upon it. It has that kind of magnetic charm.

Its once perfectly flat surface now features two deepening depressions where I have repeatedly pressed a blade into it in a relentless percussion of slicing, dicing, mincing, cubing, quartering, trimming, coring, and peeling. I can no longer roll out biscuits because the rolling pin cannot make contact with these deepening hollows.

When I learned Paul was on a ventilator and would not survive, I swept my hand over the gentle dips in the cutting board in a soothing motion. I thought about how, a half a century ago, he selected lengths of oak and maple 1x2 boards with intent. How he crafted them into this workhorse of a lifetime, one carefully measured cut after another.

I felt my brother speaking to me in the language of blade against woodgrain. A call and response. A cadence of cuts. A correspondence carved in wood, a Braille for siblings who could never see through to each other’s hearts.

Not long after Paul died, I took my knives to be sharpened and mentioned to the cutler that my cutting board was no longer a flat surface. As he wrote out my ticket, I chatted to fill the silence. “It’s hard to get a good cut.”

He offered to sand it smooth.

“No, no!” I replied instantly. “It’s a story.”

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Kris Kleindienst is a writer, queer elder, and bookseller. She has come recently to literary nonfiction after twenty-five years as a columnist for her local LGBTQIA+ newspaper and fifty-two years as the owner of Left Bank Books, served concurrently. She believes that objects, particularly ones made of organic materials, hold significant spiritual energy when we slow down enough to pay attention. The kitchen is her holy place. She is working on a family memoir and is always saying she will post more regularly on her Substack.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“I Figured Out Why I Love Tiny Houses So Much” by , Old Mom Things

“10 unusual ways to use the empty notebooks you keep buying” by

“Vintage Inspired Amp: part 1” by , Vic’s Amps

“Lena Dunham on the Retail That Raised Her” by , Shop Rat (run by )

Writing travel notes by

“Why young Americans are buying $200 notebooks from a store in Paris” by Megan Sauer, CNBC Make It

“I’m a Professional Thrift Shopper—These Are the Items I Wish People Would Stop Donating” by Ashley Poskin, Martha Stewart

It’s August, 1990, Indiana University. College classes start in one week. I’ve already noticed that my clothes are not quite right. They’re cute, but it’s as if I missed some internal memo about Rugbys, Doc Martens, and rainbow belts. I was able to secure the belt at the college head shop, but the other items remained way beyond my budget. Plus, where to shop? The Indiana University coeds—at least those who seemed comfortable in their skin—and I didn’t seem to be shopping at the same mall. They were shopping from consignment stores or catalogs, glossy promises of afternoon sailings and playing catch football with their extended family, or hiking deep into the woods in all iterations of fleece.

A day before classes started, I called my older-by-two-years cousin to ask what she wore on her first day at Ball State. She laughed, said she didn’t remember and that it wouldn’t matter. “Just wear a cute pair of denim shorts and a tank, and you’ll look cute.” God love her. That wasn’t helpful. My shorts were too long and not casually cut off the right way. They lacked fray, and they were white. My rainbow-striped espadrilles (to match the belt) weren’t the proper footwear for at least six miles of walking. By midday, I was so cold in the air-conditioned lecture halls that I longed for the embroidered IU sweatshirt I’d spotted in the bookstore.

I couldn’t ask for more money. Mom, Mr. Pell Grant, one scholarship, and I were barely paying for college. The last Target trip, prompted by a “I NEED A CUTE MIRROR AND SHOWER BUCKET” meltdown, had exhausted my budget.

Alas, a loophole. At the beginning of each semester, I’d get a refund from the Pell Grant for the money left over from my classes. I’d run out and immediately get the must-have of the moment. I distinctly remember walking from the bursar’s office to the shoe store for Birkenstocks. I was buying my college uniform.

That first semester of that first year, I got hold of a J. Crew catalog and ordered an anorak, in lake blue and The Same Rugby Everyone Wore. Strategic, as an anorak can be worn daily. It transmits both preppy and peppy. It matched my eyes. It covered up my Greek-letter-free sweatshirts. It was warm, but not too warm. As soon as I put it on, I felt like I fit in a bit more, and hid happily in it.

The consignment store was super close to my dorm (as was the mall, ironically). During Mom’s first visit, we walked down there and had the time of our lives. I bought my witchy skirts and oversized sweaters. I got a pair of vintage Levis. Lots of black. I was learning a different look from the Goth kids, but didn’t want to ape their vibe either. But flannel was most certainly a friend. Oversized flannel shirts, anorak tied around my waist, and a pair of leggings—here I come, Finite Math.

By the end of my first semester of college, I’d lost 10 pounds, four pairs of acid wash jeans, and everything with shoulder pads. I’d also lost any hope of securing the true uniform of fitting in: Greek letters on my clothes. I rushed sorority after sorority (22 in total!), wearing my mall-fancy clothes and looking around every Tudor-inspired living room, wondering how the hell I could afford to keep up with the Kappas. I clocked lots of J.Crew.

I kept wearing the anorak, but I let go of trying to look like a sorority girl. The one place I successfully fit in: The gyms: the HPER (The School of Health, Physical Education and Recreation) gym, the townie gym for fancier cardio machines and, when I could afford it, the uber-popular, mildly sadistic fitness studio for step class. I purchased the athleisure uniform of the day, a white V-neck Hanes shirt over a sports bra and Lycra shorts. Fitting in while working out was my secret sauce, until it cost me more than an entire J. Crew collection: my health and happiness.

In 2017, I checked myself into a residential eating disorder treatment center, at age 45, wearing an Athleta hoodie I got at a consignment store, plus joggers from Target. I was sporting my armor, again. A week later, I was sharing memories of an intermittently tear-filled and violent childhood with the nurse, the only woman close to my age in the house, a hilarious Black woman and Army vet. She looked at me, slobbering in my paper gown during weekly weigh-ins, and said: “Girl, you had me fooled. You walked in here, with your Lululemon and your cute lil sneakers, and I thought you had it so good.”

Recently, when Indiana University made it to the college football playoffs, the anorak was tied around my waist at the airport en route to Miami. Not red and white, but definitely my college colors. I wore it to the parking lot of Hard Rock stadium, where I tailgated with my college boyfriend and his friends, whom I’d last seen 29 years ago when we broke up after one very sad year living together in Chicago.

I’d taken a Xanax, a weed gummy, a knee brace, and an Uber to meet up with my old crew. What would we say to one another after all these years? Would they see how I’d recovered? Note that I was actually eating the crudités and salsa, or my actual ass peeking out of my cut-offs? We hugged, laughed at all the Botox, and compared medical procedures. One friend asked about my husband, a Syracuse grad, cheering IU at home with our dog. When the temperature dropped, I pulled on my anorak.

“That’s the jacket, isn’t it, Mandy?” my ex said, calling me the name of my youth, immediately recognizing both the old and new me. I no longer needed it for protection, but it sure felt good to be seen.

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Amanda Long is a nationally syndicated features writer and locally loved massage therapist who writes about what moves her, nostalgia, and her recovery from an eating disorder.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“I Spent $2,000 on a Birthday Gift for My Boyfriend—His Face Fell When He Opened It” by , Newsweek

“I decluttered my dream and then this happened” by , The Intentional Home

“Picking Up the Pieces After Mom’s Deportation” by Andrea González-Ramírez, The Cut

“Suleika Jaouad’s Love Letter to a Two-Hundred-Year-Old Farmhouse” by , Garden & Gun

“I joined a decluttering challenge and got rid of 496 items in a month. I made a point to not throw anything in the trash.” as told to Lauren Finney Harden by Mesha Griffith, Business Insider

“How to Declutter Without Creating Waste—and Where Unwanted Items Should Really Go” by Rae Ford, Martha Stewart

“Maximalist Design Can Make It Harder to Sell. These Homeowners Don’t Care.” by Laura Hine, The Wall Street Journal

I don’t recall what possessed me to toss the T-shirt in the first place. Maybe it was a simple mistake, or the casualty of a chaotic move, or an attempt to reinvent myself as someone too sophisticated to cherish a concert souvenir bought with a sweaty handful of hard-earned five-dollar bills in 1994.

But at some point during my 30-plus-year love affair with the band Blur, I divested myself of the T-shirt I purchased the first time I saw them. It wasn’t because of a change of heart. If you asked any version of me between then and now—church camp Melissa, high school burnout Melissa, bitter bourbon-slurping Melissa, sanctimonious yogi Melissa, peace-seeking middle-aged Melissa—what my favorite band was, I would have said Blur without a second’s hesitation, every time.

The tee bore the iconic cover imagery from the album Parklife: two snarling greyhounds racing for the finish line, snapping jaws caged and eyeballs showing white, with all the U.S. tour dates listed on the back. The printing on the shirt never lost a certain chemical smell no matter how many times I washed it. In line with the hip-hop inflected aesthetics of the early 90s, I chose a size XXL despite my weedy teenaged frame.

I wore it hundreds of times, but my daytime T-shirt use dropped way off once I left my twenties behind, so I didn’t much feel the loss of the artifact until two summers ago. Blur played a huge reunion gig at Wembley Stadium in London in 2023, and there was no way I was going to miss it, transatlantic travel be damned. Blur never caught on in the U.S. the way they did in much of the rest of the world, so the show was going to be the first time I was ever in the company of so many other true believers—people who might have been impressed by a 30-year-old concert tee.

As I planned my trip to London and cursed whichever Melissa had pitched the treasure, I started poking around online. Cheap and obvious knockoffs could be found without too much effort. Deep in the bowels of Grailed, though, I found it. I was convinced that it wasn’t just a shirt from the tour, but that it was THE shirt—my shirt, somehow having traveled from a thrift store in Pennsylvania to the high-end resale closet of a Tokyo hypebeast. I swore I could smell the weird printing chemicals through the screen.

I had already shelled out for plane tickets to see a concert—in for a penny, et cetera. And what price nostalgia, after all? Well…$495, plus shipping. Even as a profligate superfan, I choked on that.

In my heart, though, I tried on what it would be like to be a person who owned a 30-year-old T-shirt that I’d initially purchased for $15 and then purchased again for a car payment. When I’m trying to talk myself into buying something beautiful but pricey, I run two scenarios: I picture myself enjoying the item for the rest of my life, and then I think about being on my deathbed, gasping, “If only I’d died with $150 more in my bank account!” And then I usually buy the boots.

But I don’t actually wear T-shirts outside of my house, so I gave up on the notion of taking on an extra freelance assignment or two to buy what would essentially be a single-use item. Spending all that money to fake authenticity would have been breathtakingly uncool—a grave insult to the very not-uncool teenager who first bought the shirt.

The show was magic. (I wore a hand-me-down Blondie tee with the sleeves ripped off, upon which no one remarked.) This, my fifth time seeing Blur in concert, was a high point of my life—and I’ve done some amazing stuff during my little blip of time here on this planet. It was a connection with 15-year-old Melissa, a kid who was getting ready to make a lot of poor decisions but, one night in the mid-90s, saw something exquisite and beautiful and knew it was real.

I bought two shirts at the Wembley gig, one with two roosters that looks hip and slightly mysterious, and one that has the tour dates but kind of looks like Chicago Cubs merch. If I’d had the Parklife T-shirt on at the London show, a few strangers might have commented. Would that have been worth almost as much as the flight there? And would it have mattered to anyone at all if it was a cheap knockoff, or a stupid-expensive re-buy, or the actual original shirt?

Luckily for me and my mediocre impulse control, the archival original seems to have sold. I can’t find it online anymore.

I’ve recently found some fakes—excuse me, “reprints”—on eBay that are much higher quality than the janky ones I was browsing before the 2023 show, including one with the U.S. tour dates on the back. I could even buy it in XXL for old times’ sake. I’d wear it around the house, and my millennial husband would roll his eyes and call it “Gen X cringe,” but the hit to our bottom line would be less than a mid-range brunch.

I think, though, I’m going to let it go. I regret throwing out the original, sure. But I don’t need a T-shirt to know with absolute certainty that my favorite band has always been the best band, and to be proud that I clocked that completely as a fifteen-year-old knucklehead.

Let me know if you see it back up on Grailed, though.

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Melissa Meinzer began her writing career in the alt-weekly world in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She lives and writes in St. Louis, Missouri and holds an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from the Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Find her online at melissameinzer on social platforms and on Substack at .

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading about possessions:

“I think I am a soft hoarder.” by , Soft Crafts by Ella Emhoff

“Five Things I Regret Buying” by , The Life Edit with Shira Gill

“Stack Stories Vol. 01: A Study in Sentimental Things” by

“Stop Pinning. Start your own book of images” by , Popular

“How to create a more emotionally safe home with ADHD” by , The Dopamine Dispatch

I roll my eyes at horoscopes.

Tarot cards are for the gullible.

Ouija boards? Never.

A belief in the supernatural is simply not me. I believe in an evidence-based reality, not magic and mysticism. Yet there is one thing in my life experience I can’t rationally explain.

****

Already a budding introvert in kindergarten, I preferred watching from the periphery while the neighborhood kids played tag. They shrieked and ran; I favored observing junk mail distribution to mailboxes. Presents for everyone, my five-year-old brain interpreted. Brilliant! I waddled home and drew a stack of Crayola artwork. Taking my ten drawings, I marched right over to the first house. I stretched to lift the big metallic lip and threw one inside. The heavy thud made me blink. Most went to neighbors I knew, the leftover to the ones I didn’t.

Perhaps I was prematurely entrepreneurial. If so, it would only be a temporary trait. Nevertheless, I added my block-lettered name in case someone wanted to reward my efforts with candy. It therefore didn’t surprise me when, several hours later, my mother entered the living room, the phone receiver between her cocked shoulder and a questioning face. “Yes, Lotte, I can send her over.” I only slightly knew our Danish neighbors, but I slid off my chair and fearlessly walked to the Kristiansens’ house, eager for my sugary compensation.

I found Lotte waiting at the door with a silver necklace, the pendant in the shape of an “L.” She knelt to give it to me and said, “This was mine when I was your age. Now it’s yours, Sophie.” She must have noticed my puzzled face and added, “We will say it stands for Love.” I prized it immediately. It was the first thing I ever earned. The necklace wasn’t a gift; it was my first paycheck. I didn’t have the terminology then, but I felt empowered.

The first time I lost it was in junior high school. The necklace was part of my daily outfit except during PE, where all jewelry was banned. While changing into gym clothes, I tenderly placed it on the top tier of the rusty steel locker. This time, it slipped into the cracks of the non-flush sides, the metal clinking on its way down. I lunged to stop it, but it was too late. The necklace slithered into whatever abyss was below. Stunned, I overcame my fear of critters and tried to pry my fingers in the gap. Nothing. I was distraught. That necklace was my identity. Over the years, it had been everywhere I was. I couldn’t believe it was—poof!—gone.

I trudged into gym class. The teachers, by some uncanny miracle, began class by announcing that the 40-year-old locker room would be renovated starting next week. Was I on Candid Camera? I looked around, but the others had already started playing basketball. On Monday, I stood at the changing room construction site with my outstretched hand.

Over the following years, the “L” pendant developed a green shimmer on its edges, saying a thing or two about my teenage hygiene. It was also a good indicator that my beloved jewelry probably wasn’t sterling silver after all. But its value was never in the material; it was the reminder of my first sense of self-value.

The second time I lost it, I was a high school senior. Over spring break, I flew to visit family in South Carolina. Upon arrival at the gate, my aunt expressed relief I had finally given up on that horrible necklace. My hand flew to my chest, but it was empty. “It must’ve fallen off in flight.” I said in horror, panicked.

I dropped my bags and ran back against the exiting crowd. Reaching my seat, I patted down the cushions and cracks. Empty. I wedged myself in the leg area to get a better view of the floor. Nothing. I knew I had to disembark the plane; the stewardesses were coming over to usher me out. I passed row after row of trash, mainly discarded wrappers and bunched-up blankets. Then something eerie caught my eye. About ten rows up from my seat, I saw a gray-silver pile in the aisle. I jumped on it. Could it be? The pendant had taken a blow from the many people filing over it. Even the angle of the L had changed to from 3 to 4 o’clock. But it was back.

Home from college one spring, I took our labrador retriever to a school field after hours. I pulled out a tennis ball and chased Brandey back and forth across the vast acreage otherwise used for soccer games. Walking home, I felt the breeze was just a bit too cold and my neck an ounce too loose. I slowly put my hand to my thorax which confirmed the “L” was gone.

This time there would be no way I could find my jewelry, not in four acres of grass. Yet I couldn’t abandon my necklace or my hope. I simply had to try, even if there was no chance of a supernatural coincidence. I turned around, approaching the field on my knees and parting the first grassy tufts. This was a futile approach. I admitted defeat after 15 minutes. I had to accept that it was gone.

I stayed on the ground a bit longer, lacking the energy to get up. Brandey raced over with the ball in her mouth, expecting another round. “Sorry, girl,” I replied. “Let’s go home.” I took the slimy ball and patted my pockets for a tissue. Nothing in the outside pockets, but maybe the inside pocket. I dug deep.

My hands felt something hard in the shape of an “L.” I was whole again.

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Sophie Berghouse still has the old necklace and a new respect for the inexplicable. The meaning of “L” has expanded to luminous, lively, laudatory, lucky, and importantly, laughter as she launches herself into life. Apparently, she packed alliteration into her carry-on.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“The $2 Bowl With An 800-Year Paper Trail” by , Unfiltered & Fed

“Just wear the damn thing!” by , Slouching Towards Bethnal Green

“CYS #065: The perfect pair of earrings to wear with a navy sweater” by , Consider Yourself Cultured

“Hollywood woman decorates apartment with Oscars red carpet found in dumpster — and one winner now wants scraps for mementos” by Kathleen Perricone, Entertainment Weekly

“My dad made the biggest jewelled egg in the world. The obsession would destroy his marriage, family and fortune” by Serena Kutchinsky, The Guardian

“How to streamline your wardrobe this spring – including with the 90/90 decluttering method” by Sally Newall, Country Living

My gray Nike sneakers have been sun-scorched into more of a green-ish brown. The trim is beginning to fray. The insoles are starting to stink a little bit. The outsoles are worn; someday in the not-too-distant future, there will be holes.

Objectively, it’s time to get new shoes. They were secondhand to begin with, and I’ve had them for nearly three years. I’ve put thousands of miles on them, millions of steps. Yet I can’t bear to part with them.

They became mine in 2023 during a trip within a trip—from Los Angeles to Minnesota to visit my family, and from my hometown to Spirit Lake, Iowa, for an errand run with my mom and Grandma Marge. It was part of their routine, which I was delighted to crash whenever I came home. They would pick up groceries at Walmart and Hy-Vee, we would peruse Consignment Corner, we’d get a little treat—a soda and maybe a small snack—and then we’d head back to Jackson.

On one of those jaunts, I bought my Nikes from the consignment store, and when I look at them, I’m right back in those memories. Sitting in the middle seat of the minivan, chatting with the two generations in front, helping my grandma with her walker, watching her hunt for the perfect blouse (she had impeccable taste), listening to her cute “Mmm” noises of vocal appreciation when I shared my potato wedges or chicken strips, taking in the simple bliss.

In April 2024, my grandma died of heart failure after a fall. Her decline happened so fast, I couldn’t comprehend it until I was cuddling with her cold body—mere hours from life. I wasn’t ready for it to be the end. Almost two years without her, I’m still not ready. It seems impossible. Time can be so cruel.

I was so lucky to grow up in the same small town with both grandmas and a grandpa. This meant lots of extended family dinners. Sick days watching soap operas with Grandma Marge. Countless errand runs to Walmart, Shopko, or the nursery for landscaping supplies. Even back when I was a kid, I knew this time together was special. As I got older, I came to understand it as the tremendous privilege it was. But I’d never had to go without; it seemed like they would always be around.

In 2016, my other grandma passed away. I love my grandparents so much. After my Grandma Betty died, I was devastated, especially since I was too poor to travel home very often in my early adulthood. But after her death, I started making it a higher priority. I didn’t like to go more than six months at a time, at the absolute most, without visiting my Grandma Marge. I would send her word finds (her favorite) and flowers in my absence.

I got eight additional years with Grandma Marge, but I was greedy for more. I thought I still had at least a handful more in my future. I had projects I wanted to do with her. Conversations I wanted to have. Time I wanted to spend in her vicinity. But those wishes would remain unfulfilled.

I have stuff to remember her by—her wedding ring, some of her chic sweaters, a couple of old journals, one of her paintings, her finger imprint on a necklace—all of which I cherish. But these smelly shoes have become their own kind of precious heirloom.

Intellectually, I know having such a deep attachment to objects is ridiculous. I watched the funeral home take my grandma’s body away with just the pajamas she died in, and she couldn’t even bring those with her; I’m sure they were burned along with her when she was cremated. None of us will make it out of this life with the shirt on our backs, much less the body that wore it.

But I’m still here, and I miss sharing life with my grandma. So I will keep walking in my Grandma Marge-anointed Nikes until they fall apart, and maybe beyond, thinking of her every time I lace them up.

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Courtney Kocak is a writer, podcaster, and comedian who splits her time between Austin and Los Angeles. She hosts the podcast Private Parts Unknown and writes and hosts The Bleeders on Substack. Her debut memoir, Girl Gone Wild, is out April 1, 2026!

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“in the closets of my mother-the-model” by , Poor Man’s Feast

“On non-minimal living” by

“an analog adventure (without buying more things)” by , midnight crumbs

“The Analog Life Project” by , Little Truths

“The strange persistence of paper” by

“building a physical archive of the ordinary and the irreplaceable” by , a quiet dispatch

My most prized possession—the one item I’d save in a fire—is a wadded-up tissue.

Let me back up. My mother, sister, and I spent a week together in September 2016 in Tuscany at a yoga retreat just after I’d received a gut-punch email from my on-again-off-again boyfriend ending things for good. Always one to keep things to myself, I didn’t tell them about it or how much I was hurting.

We spent the week exploring Tuscany, taking yoga classes among the vineyards, and indulging in pasta and wine. The time together was a much-needed and welcomed distraction from the pain I was holding.

After the yoga retreat, I planned to kiss them both goodbye and set off on my first solo international trip. I would take the train to Cinque Terre to hike between towns for the next week. I’d yearned for this type of adventure for years, and it was finally coming to fruition.

During our week together, my mom frequently made comments about my need to stay safe and be careful when traveling alone. I was already irritable from the breakup, and these “reminders” were getting under my skin. I had traveled alone extensively in the U.S. for my job as a software implementation consultant, so I was hardly a novice. Why was she so worried? What I subconsciously recognized as love and concern was showing itself as anxiety and nagging.

It all came to a head the night before they flew home. Their flight was scheduled early in the morning, so they planned to sneak out quietly before I woke up. As we were saying our goodbyes, my mom couldn’t help but express her worries—again—and I snapped. “Do you think I’m dumb?” I yelled. “Do you think I want to put myself in unsafe situations? You have to trust that you raised me well enough to make good decisions!” It ended the conversation, but I went to bed feeling hurt and angry.

When I awoke the next morning, my mom and sister were gone as expected. I immediately sensed the quiet in the room and felt my own sliver of anxiety, knowing that I was truly on my own for the next week in a foreign country. What had I done? Was I ready for this?

I got myself ready and lugged my suitcase to the door, the weight of my bag mirroring my mind. As I went to reach for the apartment keys from the entry table, I immediately recognized her handwriting—a note from my mom written on a generic bathroom tissue.

“I wish for you great, wonderful adventures. Love you oodles and gobs, Mom.”

I stood in the doorway and reread her words. This was more than a travel wish. It was an olive branch, maybe even an apology. It flooded me in the best way, and I teared up thinking about her love for me and how heavy it must feel sometimes to see your child take chances.

I folded up the tissue and stuffed it in my passport wallet. Keeping it with me was keeping her with me. Since that day, the tissue has accompanied me on every adventure I’ve had. I look at it every time, not only as a reminder of her support, but also as a lesson in loving someone enough to let them be themselves and chase their dreams, even when it feels impossible.

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Kelly Bunch is a writer, editor, and community builder with a passion for poetry, storytelling, and self-reflective essays. Her writing has recently been published in the poetry collection If You Ever: Poems Inspired by Kim Addonizio, and she has also published work in Thrive Global, Made in KC Explore, and KC Options magazine. She lives in Kansas City with her husband and enjoys experiencing the world through travel and oversharing with the internet on her Substacks, The Tea Library and Hope No One Reads This.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“A Love Letter to the Humble Cassette” by , Listening Sessions

“Good Riddance: Keepsakes of the Almost” by , Listening in the Dark

“On Collecting Reference & Inspiration” by , Letterpress Love: New Things. Old Ways.

“8 Places to Buy Art Supplies That Aren’t Amazon” by

“Let’s Talk About Shoes (and How to Declutter Them)” by , The Declutter Queen

“I joined a decluttering challenge and got rid of 496 items in a month. I made a point to not throw anything in the trash.” as told to Lauren Finney Harden, Business Insider

“The Best Things on Fifth Avenue Don’t Cost a Dime” by Jennifer Gersten, The New York Times

Let’s travel full time, we said to each other in 2023. A life with no fixed address and very few possessions. My husband and I found renters for our suburban house, and the next step was to unload its contents.

But there were so many things. I walked through the house attempting some kind of inventory, organizing objects on shelves and in boxes: this to give away, this to sell, this for our grown children. Sometimes I’d unload a great deal of stuff all at once. But some objects, like the gargoyle, persisted.

I had picked up the gargoyle—surprisingly heavy—in a quirky shop in Cambridge, England. About the size of a bulbous gourd, it sat with its arms wrapped around its shins, all pointed ears, observant eyes, and pensive contemplation. I was in my twenties then, working an office job on a nearby military base, writing short stories and essays on evenings and weekends and full of literary ambition. I’d taken the train to Cambridge to look through bookshops and feel connected to erudition and enlightenment; I took home some used books and this intently focused hunk of molded concrete, probably meant as a wry garden ornament. It looked amazing on the highest shelf of my bookcase. I imbued it with hope.

Time passed. We moved and moved again for one job or another. I freelanced a little, taught school. We had our son, then our daughter. There were math notebooks and book reports strewn across the kitchen table, also birthday cakes and tax forms and Thanksgiving turkeys, and the gargoyle silently presided over it all. Once, lifting it from a box after a move, I found one of its feet had broken, which pained me more than I could explain. I glued together the concrete slivers, declaring that the cracks added to its gargoylian charm. It resumed its vigil. We stopped noticing it much. If you ask my children to name objects in their childhood homes, I doubt the gargoyle would make the list, but if you show them a photo they would say, yes, that was always there. Almost invisible.

The kids grew up, went to college. The idea of a new life of world travel evolved from a conversation to a rough plan, to a detailed plan with spreadsheets and due dates. It was time to interrogate each possession, and the gargoyle was suddenly very noticeable. Was it always this heavy? I carried it to a spot in the basement designated for stuff to go next. It settled onto the shelf and peered out, just as it always had. I had the urge to explain. Or apologize.

I found new owners for dishes, blankets, neckties, cake pans, extension cords, Legos, a popcorn air popper, an ironing board, picture frames, watercolor sets, bike racks, baskets, mason jars, shoes. A lawn mower. The kitchen table. But the gargoyle? I kept reaching around it. It appeared to be maintaining its vigil in the basement, and I appeared to be letting it.

I took photos from its front, side, and hunched little back.

Finally, when there was almost nothing left in the house, when my husband and I were sleeping on a mattress on the floor with only a small suitcase and backpack each, I offered up the gargoyle in an online neighborhood group. I included all the photos and described the old shop in Cambridge, the glued-together foot, its long tenure presiding over the kitchen table. It’s heavy, I warned. It must be moved with care.

Half a dozen messages from interested takers popped up with startling speed. I read each message and chose the person who said she loved its furrowed brow. Quickly, I took it from the basement shelf, wrapped it, and set it on the porch.

She texted to say sorry, she couldn’t stop by until the morning. No problem, I responded, and scrubbed the sink, wiped out the hall closet, took out the trash, helped my husband clear some things out of the shed, all the while pulled toward the package on the porch. For the hundredth time I imagined pulling it inside, feeling its weight again. After all, there were a few items I planned to keep at a friend’s house: my mother’s hand-painted cards, a few drawings and lumpy clay pots made by my children when they were small, notes from my husband, and a few old notebooks filled with my earnest handwriting. Enough to acknowledge the best of the life already lived without weighing down the life to come.

I also kept a blank notebook, tucked into my backpack.

In the morning, I opened the front door and the gargoyle had been claimed. In its stead was an empty space. I took up the broom and swept the porch, and then I swept the whole house clean.

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Launa Hall and her husband have been traveling full time for over two years. She writes travel pieces about connections, contradictions, and what’s beneath the surface at Launa at Large. She holds a writing MFA and is at work on a book about how children learn to read in different parts of the world. Her favorite place she’s traveled is usually where she is right now.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“The Joy of Somebody Else’s Old Sweater” by , Saratonin

“How love shows up in ordinary objects” by , Write at the Edge

“Details,details,details” by , What Comes Next

“thrift month: not everything secondhand is thrifted” by , uflattering

The house I grew up in had brown wall-to-wall carpet in every room, like a layer of dark soil beneath us. As a kid, I traced my fingers through its meandering lines while I read Little Women on my bedroom floor. When my younger sister was a baby, she delighted in grabbing the shaggy fibers in her chubby fists, trying to pull them up like grass. My older sister, who was troubled in ways I would never understand, vacuumed the carpet in patterns that soothed her.

Too frugal to replace the carpet just because it was ugly, my immigrant parents simply accepted it as another unfortunate part of the American dream, along with winter and bosses who couldn’t pronounce their names. Raising three daughters, forging careers in a foreign land, and their struggling marriage took precedence over correcting this petty crime of interior design.

In the kitchen, the dusky strands absorbed the scent of my mother’s cooking, our weekly West Indian menu of potato curry, dal, and roti. In the living room, the carpet buffered the soundtrack of the Bollywood films we watched on weekends. When I became a student of Bharatanatyam dance in third grade, the pile in the den matted under my bare feet as I practiced.

For six years, the brown carpet hid my family’s stains and shrouded our secrets. Buried in its swirling crevices was the bitter dust of every argument and silence. The coarse covering muffled the echoes of feet stomping up the stairs, doors slamming, and voices raised in anger and protest. In moments of chaos I still struggle to understand, it stifled slaps, shoves, and sobs. The brown carpet became the mottled earth from which we grew, unsteady but always reaching for the light.

After my parents divorced and my father moved out, my older sister discovered hardwood flooring beneath the brown carpet. We were stunned to realize it had been there all along. That summer, my mother, my sisters, and I rid the house of its mangy padding. We pulled and hacked at the carpet, sneezing and coughing from the grime, gouging our fingers on the staples. We stuffed the torn shards into trash bags and dragged them to the end of the driveway.

When we were finished, the house was transformed, lightened physically and emotionally. Taking off the carpet was like removing heavy makeup from a performer to reveal the unadorned face beneath, beautiful in its raw vulnerability. Our words echoed from room to room; there was nothing to smother our voices. At 12, I knew that a house could be a battleground. In the years to come, my mother taught me how the same space could become a refuge.

By the time I was in high school, my mother had left the corporate world, completed her yoga teacher training, and repurposed the den as her yoga studio. On Sunday mornings, her students criss-crossed the floor with colorful mats, the room echoing with the sound of “Om.” Everyone who visited commented on how calm and welcoming the space was. They would never know about the years of the brown carpet, and how my mother had to fight for our peace. Eventually, my own two children crawled across the bare wooden planks, unaware of their hard-won story.

In 2020, the house was sold after 34 years. The brown carpet exists only in old photos, a reminder of my family’s past and all that we have overcome.

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Sumitra Mattai is a writer, storyteller and textile designer based in New York City. She holds a BFA in Textile Design from the Rhode Island School of Design and an MFA in Creative Writing from The New School. Her essays have been shared in Huffington Post, Scary Mommy and Open Secrets Magazine, among others. For more information, visit her website, www.sumitramattai.com, find her on Instagram @sumitramattai, or check out her newsletter, Clothbound, about textiles in art, design and everyday life.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“How to Spend $2,000 Recreating Your 1983 Basement” by , Spitz Mix

“My Date with the Glade Plug-In Killer” by

“Estate Sale” by , Miss Manhattan

“How to Make Room for the Work You Actually Want to Do” by

“Why You Can’t Throw Stuff Away (The Neuroscience of Clutter)” by , Brain Health, Decoded

“How Letting Go of My Mother’s Things Helped Me Hold On to What Matters” by Dina Aronson, Newsweek

“DVDs are the new vinyl records: Why Gen Z is embracing physical media” by Cerys Davies, The Los Angeles Times

New York Found But Not Lost scarf giveaway, bryantparknyc on Instagram

In 2017, I bought a candle. I had just moved to Glasgow and was living on my own for the first time. It seemed as good a way as any to mark the occasion.

My budget was £40, which made me nervous. But candles in general spike my health anxiety anyway. I remain unconvinced that slowly burning chemical-infused wax in a confined space and actively beckoning it into your lungs is an optimal move. But wasn’t this adulthood?

The deliberations were extensive. It was a small flat, already furnished to its natural limits. Sure, I’d put a giant Chagall poster from The Met’s 1950s production of “The Magic Flute” on the wall. Me liking opera…That was old news. The candle was the thing that was going to signify momentum and change.

The candle I chose came in an opaque sky-blue jar with a wooden lid. I think the intended connotations were both Nordic and coastal. Its scent seemed to hint at both journey and stasis, escape and comfort. Cold sea air, warm celeriac soup, and company.

I didn’t burn the candle for four years.

Not because I’d forgotten about it. I’d often pick it up, turn it in my hands, consider lighting it, then put it back.

It was never a £40 candle evening.

I thought the candle required certain conditions. It was designed to complement an already assured, completed existence, not to try to manifest one. But those conditions kept failing to arrive.

The candle wasn’t meant to improve things in its own small, and possibly carcinogenic, way. It was meant to crown them. To mark a state of being I hadn’t yet achieved. A sense of feeling as though I was finally fully inhabiting a body that had long betrayed my trust. A sense that I was no longer hovering but grounded, present, and enveloped.

This was not a one-off.

Early in the pandemic, I had bought some expensive organic porridge. Something about porridge struck me as incredibly functional. There is nothing ephemeral about a box of porridge. It’s a promise of commitment and consistency.

I wanted it for the same reason I’d wanted the candle: I thought it promised something about the person I was about to become.

It was also a novelty. Normally my colon is too angry and inflamed. To eat breakfast and attempt to leave the house would be taken as the most blatant incitement, but the medical advice for the clinically vulnerable to stay home had removed that barrier.

And yet, I didn’t eat the porridge either. If I did, I thought I would have to somehow honor that for the rest of the day. The day would have to be as functional and satisfying as the meal that started it and I was never confident I could deliver on that contract.

Eating it would also mean accepting that the life I had now, this body, this routine, this constant calibration, was the life where I got to have nice porridge. Not a life where I’d earned it by being well or functional or sorted.

As long as the bag sat unopened, the good porridge could still be waiting for the good life. Both still in the future. Both still possible.

While writing this piece, I searched stubbornly for a photo of the candle. Surprisingly, I’d never given it headline billing in a carefully curated social media shot. Looking back, it seems strange I didn’t try and at least get some bang for my buck.

It does appear, though, over the course of several years and several coffee tables, lurking, with its lid firmly on.

I finally burned the candle sometime in 2021. I don’t remember when. I do remember why. A year into the pandemic, my life was so comically far away, further away, from functional, it felt safe to let the candle and its promises burn.

I now buy candles and strike the match. Sometimes the same day. Occasionally, I still catch myself placing small pleasures on the highest shelf, wondering if the day will be right enough to wear my nicest socks. But candles are just companions now, not checkpoints.

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Jack Richard is a charity worker based in Scotland. He writes about queerness, disability and the emotional architecture of introversion and containment, with frequent cameos from Mozart and Mel C. When not working, or writing, he is attempting to compose an 80s-style kitsch musical based on the life of Lady Jane Grey, despite having no evidence this is a good idea.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“Uncluttering a life,” by , The Halfway Path

“#151: 5 NEW THINGS I’VE BOUGHT FOR MY APARTMENT” by

“Olympic Polish Team Brought a Smiling Pierogi Plushie With Them and Fans Love the Mini Mascot” by Regina Sienra, My Modern Met

“FROM A WHIFF OF MYSTIQUE TO WITTY LOVE: OVER 200 YEARS OF VALENTINE’S CARDS” by Alisha Haridasani Gupta, The New York Times

by Jamie M.

In my Great Lesbian Breakup of 2012, there were a lot of adult toys to sort through. By “a lot” I mean an Ikea locker full of pleasure objects in every shape, size, and color, courtesy of the employee discount from my job at a sex shop. Battery operated, plug in, human powered; leather, silicone, jelly rubber, nylon, feather; clips, clamps, and plugs. I placed few limitations on what I took home—cock rings, for example, clearly had no role in my bedroom—so after five years at Good Vibrations, my locker overflowed.

My newly ex-girlfriend and I had been together for most of the time I worked in the shop, so many of the items were hers as much as they were mine. We each brought some of our own toys to the relationship, from the single days before we met, and we upgraded together. Plastic-y rubber was replaced with silicone; fake leather replaced with real. Hastily bought and terribly shot DVDs found on Amazon were swapped out with top-of-the-line adult content featuring great lighting and crisp editing.

The collection was varied, expansive, and expensive. Even half of it would have been too much to take into the new relationship I had already begun. Almost everything had to go. Videos that didn’t make the cut were buried in donation boxes dropped at the thrift store on Valencia Street, after calling to confirm they accepted them, books were sold, and my ex took the few things she wanted. What went directly into the trash can were the items that were a part of our relationship, the toys we shared.

There was one toy in the locker that was mine, and mine alone. An item that I had worked for and bought with no intention of sharing. Tucked snugly in its black, purse-like case, the dildo, named the Eleven, was stainless steel, 11 inches long, two inches in diameter, and simply beautiful. My love for it didn’t run deep, but wide. Girthy. Its retail cost at the time was over $300, expensive even with my discount. Instead of cash, however, I paid for it in shop credit accrued by screening videos. At $5 per review, I needed to watch a lot of porn to have enough credit to cover the cost. And watch I did. For months I was sent DVDs via intra-office mail, and would play them at home, eyes peeled for non-consensual acts, hate speech, scenes that would get the shop in trouble. The fast forward button on my laptop was rubbed clean, but there are worse ways to earn a dildo. A week before I left the company, I redeemed my credits. The Eleven was mine.

I felt like I was bringing a trophy home. I wanted to engrave it with something but couldn’t figure out what. Earning it was an accomplishment, and I quickly learned that using it was as well. The metal was cool to the touch, needing to be warmed with body heat, and the weight of almost three pounds tired my forearm quickly. The size itself also required intentionally applied relaxation. I was immediately in love.

Three years after the breakup I married the woman from the new relationship, and two years after that we had a child. The Eleven has been neglected for months at a time, but I always find my way back. Now, at 44, I have more confidence than ever, wielding a tool not everyone could use. For 13 years, that solid chunk of smooth metal has been a source of pride and release. I also feel like a badass holding it, the line between sex toy and weapon blurred in my fist.

Would I save the Eleven in a fire? No, I would not. It’s hidden deep in the bedroom closet and grabbing it in an emergency would be quite difficult. Standing outside my burning house with a gigantic metal dildo would also be pretty awkward. But would I scavenge through the ashes after the fire, hoping to catch a flash of stainless steel shining through the rubble, and upon finding it rejoice with the enthusiasm of a woman reunited with her heavyweight lover? Yes, yes I would.

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Jamie M. is a queer writer living in Oregon with her wife and daughter.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading about possessions:

“Making All My Clothes (And Shoes!) Changed My Life. Here’s How You Can Do It Too” by Jasika Nicole, Another Jane Pratt Thing

“I Don’t Need Better Habits. I Need Fewer Things.” by , Downtime

“Confessions of a Hoarder” by

“The Psychology of Hoarding Journals (and Never Using Them)” by , The Stationery Project

“The artist who turns your phone into a sex toy” by Stephen van Dyck, Artforum

“‘It’s not just pleasure – it’s resistance’: portraits of people with their sex toys around the world” by Erica Buist, The Guardian

I was in college when my roommate and I discovered something called the Sing-Along Messiah. The idea is simple: George Frederic Handel wrote an English language oratorio called The Messiah, which has a very famous and very beautiful chorus called the Hallelujah Chorus. This uplifting chorus is one among many in the musical work, and churches and choirs around the country had begun inviting any old body—regardless of singing ability—to join in the beautiful choral singing. Whether you are a believer or not, the music transcended the time in which it was written. We thrilled at joining in this beloved piece of music, trying to trill our voices up and down the octaves as we sang with the rest of the audience: forever and ever, hallelujah, hallelujah!

We sent away for free tickets (back then there was no internet so no way to order online; you had to write a letter to get a ticket) and were giddy with excitement when we got them in the mail. The event always sold out, and we had missed getting tickets the year before. The sing-along took place in a local church that had hired professional singers to sing the solos and would rely on people like us for the choral parts.

Roomie and I didn’t really know what we were doing that first time, but we did buy scores that were available for sale in the lobby. I paid $20 for my copy which was a lot of money for a college student in the eighties. We decided we were altos and stood together at the back of the church tentatively singing and trying to follow the complicated measures. My memory is that she was better at reading the music and keeping in tune than I ever was, but thankfully, no one called anyone out for getting lost or singing off-key. That night, we may have tip-toed over to the soprano section depending on which part we liked better.

The singing exhilarated us, and for the few years we lived in that city, we made it an annual event. Singing along to the oratorio gave us great joy and remained a bond between us. I would often stick the program from the evening into my score book, or maybe the sacred ticket to the event, or a Christmas card that had come in the mail that day. There’s an envelope tucked in there with our old street address on it.

That roommate and I, sadly, parted ways. I sometimes feel embarrassed for not keeping in touch or understanding how to mitigate growing unease with each other. Had the friendship continued I have no doubt she would be a profound part of my current life, each championing the other through the milestones and heartbreak as we had started to in the nascent days of our relationship in that shared dorm room. As Yeats said in his famous poem, the center cannot not hold, and so it was for our closeness.

But even though the friendship ended, I kept the music. It has moved everywhere with me. The town I ended up settling in holds a sing-along Messiah every year with no tickets needed. I simply show up in the appointed place with my score and a donation for the local food bank.

I’ve kept all the mementos placed into the pages of my score book, using it almost like a scrapbook. When I sit in the pews, embedded in the alto section—always around people who really know how to sing—I love to look through the ephemera I’ve collected. I remember my old roommate, standing with me at the doors of that church, tentatively trying to figure out where we fit in, joyously, awkwardly singing that famous chorus. Leaving the church together arm in arm, lightheaded from singing sacred music, wrapped in cold winter weather, and maybe even a little holiday spirit.

I wonder if she too has kept her Messiah score and if she uses it as a portal back in time to visit me in the doorway of that church, rolling her eyes at my inability to match pitches with the alto section, letting the music surround us in its ancient tradition. I treasure that book of music. I keep careful track of it, and the moment I pull it off the shelf every year to prepare to sing is almost as holy to me as the singing itself. I hope somewhere my old roomie is singing as well, perhaps, remembering me.

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Amy L Cornell lives in Bloomington, Indiana. She is chair of the board of a local non-profit arts organization called Women Writing for a Change where she leads writing circles for marginalized communities. She has long been fascinated by the role of objects and stuff in writing. She is not a hoarder, but her husband might disagree.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading about possessions:

“How I Downsized My Entire Home Office Into a Single Box” by , The Life Edit

“The Objects I Reach For Every Single Day” by , The Well-Lived Collective

“Objects from Seoul” by

“Listening to Everyday Objects” by , The Scrap Heap

“I Am So Bad at Interior Decoration” by , Esque

“The Pokémon Store That I Work At Was Robbed At Gunpoint. Something Incredible Happened After The Thieves Fled.” by Peter Du, HuffPost Personal

I have two identical porcelain Josef Originals August birthstone figurines. One, a recent gift from my daughter, is perfect. The other one—the original one—was perfect too, until she wasn’t. She is broken and has been for some time.

Tiny and fragile, with an August birthstone that caught the light and shot rays of sunshine across my bedroom, the original figurine was at my bedside throughout childhood.

I came home from middle school one day to my belongings strewn across my bedroom floor. It wasn’t long before I noticed the figurine broken and tossed aside amongst clothes and hangers on the floor. The porcelain head was separated from the body, and one delicate arm snapped off at the elbow. I searched for and found the missing pieces and glued the figurine back together.

When I lift her, she’s lighter than she looks. Looks can be deceiving. I remember how carefully I held the broken figurine, afraid of damaging it further as I glued it back together. The repaired arm didn’t hang the way it once did and is now missing, and there’s a faint seam at the neck that catches the light differently than the rest of the figurine. If I run my thumb along that seam, I can feel where the porcelain never quite aligned.

I didn’t have the words for it then, but in that moment, something shifted. I knew in my bones that the rest of my life wouldn’t be like this—small and unattended. I would do better. I would be better.

In the years that followed, the broken figurine sat on my dresser, and I saw it every morning. Before transitions or difficult decisions that asked more of me than felt comfortable or safe, I’d pause long enough before the figurine, take it all in, then keep going. I was piecing together a life that mattered. It remained there through high school, college, and adult life—marriage, the birth of our daughter, and raising a family—as a steadfast, quiet reminder of my power to write a different story for myself and my family.

When our daughter arrived, I vowed that she would be cared for. She would always come home to parents who adored her, never question whether she mattered, and wouldn’t have to choose between asking for what she needed and staying quiet to avoid conflict. When she considered her future, she would talk about opportunities and experiences from a place of abundance and love.

Was I perfect? Hell no. But was I better? I was.

I knew this when, on Christmas, my daughter gifted me another Josef Originals August birthstone figurine. I shared the story of the broken figurine with her years before, and she knew what it meant to me. Standing there with this perfect figurine in my hands, I saw clearly that I had raised a confident, generous young woman who’d been watching me with the quiet understanding of someone beyond her years.

Now, both figures are displayed together on the shelf in my clothes closet. They are the first things I see each morning when I open the doors, should I choose to lift my gaze slightly upward.

Whether I lift my gaze or not, both figurines remain as visible reminders of the care, mistakes, and love that shape my life.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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Lisa Rosendahl is a writer, former Army officer, and retired human resources leader. Her essays explore identity, work, and the small, often overlooked moments where discernment and care quietly shape a life. She writes at Caesura on Substack.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading about personal possessions:

“I’m craving a landline” by , The Landing

“I had an existential crisis over tiktok shop” by , unflattering

“18 things I *didn’t* buy at the thrift store” by , Rabbit Fur Coat

“Welcome to Jumper Slut, an oddly specific new intermittent feature here.” by , Patient.

“Everyone Wants a Room Where They Can Escape Their Screens” by Nora Knoepflmacher, The Wall Street Journal

“A teen couldn’t find her mom’s 30-year-old demo tape. The internet stepped in.” by Dugan Arnett, The Philadelphia Inquirer

Turning a dead Austin tree into music, Instagram post, kut_austin

What is this? My mom found it at a thrift store, Reddit thread, whatisit subreddit

My record collection is my autobiography.

I sit on the ground, in the center of ten moving boxes full of vinyl. I’m surrounded by the story of a young man—idealistic, foolish, and sincere. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t get rid of these records, because no one else would want them. Many covers have rips and smashed corners. Some discs are just in paper sleeves. Some spines are shredded, thanks to an old cat. Some have center labels marked in Sharpie: “No!” to remind me the intro skips; “115” to note the BPM; “Break 4” to tell me where to drop the needle. These records are veterans. They’re too battered to sell and useless to the next generation of DJs. I can’t just abandon them at a thrift store, like some pants that don’t fit anymore. Throwing them away would be a mortal sin.

I love records because they can keep secrets. I’ve found a love note written decades ago, a newspaper clipping from the sixties about a Grateful Dead concert, and extra, unrelated records all within the sleeves. The album cover can have price tags on top of price tags stratified from stores that may not exist anymore, documenting the journey from Sam Goody, to Amoeba, to the thrift bin. Records are snapshots in time.

I can’t get rid of Outkast’s Aquemini because it reminds me of the first time I heard “Rosa Parks” while sitting in the back of my friend’s Honda Accord, the old boxy type, stoned out of my mind and in awe. We listened to that album twice through.

I can’t get rid of my Kraftwerk records because “Tour de France” was my first “find.” I brought the track to my DJ friends and played it because I thought it sounded cool. No one had heard of the band, but they knew the track from Breakin’—the scene where Turbo is dancing with the broom. “Zach found the Breakin’ track!” That record legitimized me.

I can’t get rid of my Frank Sinatra, Merle Haggard, and Nina Simone records (not to mention Roberta Flack, Woody Guthrie, and Ray Charles) because those were what I played when I was going through it, DJing alone, one melancholy tune after another, letting the sleeves, covers, and discs pile up in chaotic stacks.

I can’t get rid of The Muppet Movie soundtrack because I played “Movin’ Right Along” at a house party after the Zozobra festival in Santa Fe. It almost caused a riot on the dance floor with a nostalgic, drunken singalong.

I can’t get rid of my 99-cent Goodwill records, because that was my myopic line in the sand. When DJs were going digital, I was obstinate and rocked parties with only thrift store finds to make a point. I play digital now, too.

The ironic thing is that both my needles are broken. I can’t use my record players. But yes, I can stream the music. It even says lossless on the digital album page. But is it?

My record collection is my memories, my friendships, my aspirations, my regrets, my philosophy, my pretension, my influences, and my attachments.

If all of that sounds a bit too esoteric, well, it might be. What else could explain why I lug around boxes that weigh 70 pounds, cursing my life choices every time I move. It’s why I make space for a twelve-inch square that doesn’t really fit in the world anymore, let alone most shelves. It’s why I let them take up a conspicuous amount of room, stacking up in any spare corner, doorway, or floorspace. It’s not just music; it’s a record of my life.

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Zach Wiles is an itinerant wanderer who at different times has been a DJ, a radio producer, a cog at a major music label, a grant writer, a man in love, the oldest person in class (by far), an immigrant, a party animal, even a monk. Most recently, he sold everything and moved to Italy to pursue a master’s degree. He writes stories that look deeper into our shared experiences as humans. His writing focuses on music, travel, culture, and tripping upwards through life.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your own Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“decluttering makes me emotional” by , Uninterrupted

“The perils of decluttering your childhood bedroom” by , vignettes

“The World of Missoni” by

“Collector vs. Hobby Funder” by , The Collectors Edge

“A God-Tier Americana Collector Shares His Trove of Vintage Field Watches” by Jeremy Freed, GQ

“A Con Artist, a Music-Industry Legend and the Feud Over a Masterpiece” by Jenny Strasburg and Kelly Crow, The Wall Street Journal

“How Gen Z Fell for Estate Sales” by Madeline Weinfield, Elle

It happened to be on my birthday that I got a managerial job at a secondhand bookshop in a small, sleepy basement mall in downtown Nova Scotia. Once a popular shopping and lunch spot for the government office crowd who worked above, it was now long past its prime, making the bookshop especially quiet and reader-friendly.

The owner had passed rather suddenly, and I happened to call at just the right time, asking after the Folio edition of Streatfeild’s Ballet Shoes I had seen weeks earlier. When I described the shelf it had been on down to the number of paces from the counter, the owner’s husband asked if I wanted a job. Scoffing, I replied, “I wish.” He was serious, and my life was forever changed.

I walked around my new workspace, gazing at the shelves, some long overdue for a re-alphabetizing, and even some with extra titles piled neatly on the floor. I couldn’t wait to get started. When I came to the Classic Literature section, my eyes spied a Penguin Books copy of 84, Charing Cross Road, its small orange spine beckoning me. I gave a sharp intake and snatched it up, instinct declaring there couldn’t be a more appropriate moment to read it for the first time.

I had heard of this little book but never sought it out intentionally, having assumed it was just another charming novel about bookselling. I had no idea, until I sat down to read it, that it was an epistolary work of nonfiction, comprised entirely of letters between the author, American writer Helene Hanff, and Frank Doel, a bookseller for Marks & Co. in London, sent over two decades.

I was hooked from the beginning, and I’d read it on my bus commute and lunch breaks with cups of tea at the bookshop. It’s not a very long book, at under a hundred pages, but I lingered over the letters and read them slowly, or repeatedly (as one often does with letters), to prolong the cozy feeling of being in another time.

Delightfully, I watched Helene and Frank’s formalities slowly slip away as their writing tones turned familiar and even affectionate with the passage of time. I learned that in the late forties secondhand books were a rare commodity in North America, except for rare (and expensive) first editions, which led Helene to write to Marks & Co. I’d share in Frank’s triumph when he located a book for Helene she’d asked for a long while back. My eyes misted when Helene sent care packages of meat and other hard-to-find post-war foods, and again when subsequent letters of gratitude began to appear from other staff at the bookshop, or from Frank’s wife Nora. And, finally, I felt the sudden shock to discover that not only did Frank and Helene never get to meet in person, but she was also never to see the titular bookshop while it was in business. I sat there quietly sniffling at the loss and injustice on behalf of Helene.

84, Charing Cross Road was the perfect unintentional primer for my bookselling journey, and supports the theory that book people are the best people. I still have that original copy, and have made it my quest to collect as many editions of it as possible. So far I’m at four, with volumes from the US, Britain, and Ireland. I reread it every couple of years as a reminder of my time as a bookseller. While I had relatively little in common with these two people, I could take my cues of quality customer service from Frank, and Helene’s insatiable hunger for books, in order to do my best to find new stories and old favorites for my patrons. I did this, blissfully, for seven and a half months, until the bookshop was sold and I was unable to go along with it. I wouldn’t trade my time there for anything, and would love nothing more than to do it all over again.

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Meaghan Steeves (she/her) is a freelance nonfiction editor and writer based in Nova Scotia. Her writing has appeared in Little White Lies, Mslexia Magazine, Hard Copy Media, and Oh Reader Magazine. She loves her small dog and spends her free time reading, baking, book hunting, and watching documentaries. You can find her at choicewordsediting.com or on Instagram at @choicewordsedit.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“I’m finally ready to tell all…” by , Good Thing Going

“On New Pens” by , CRAFT TALK

“This Is The Year You Start Shopping Differently.” by ,

“‘Sidewalk joy’: From keychains to comics, small exchanges spark moments of connection” by Clara Longo de Freitas, The Baltimore Banner

“A Bay Area Librarian Is Using Vintage Vinyl to Show Tweens Where Music Comes From” by Soleil Ho, Coyote

“Sorry, Your Kids Don’t Want Your Stuff or Your Parents’ Stuff” by Richard Eisenberg, Next Avenue

My marriage looked perfect from the outside. We had a house with a porch swing, two sedans in the driveway, and a joint bank account that, behind the scenes, was always gasping for air. The problem wasn’t that we were poor; it was that my husband, David, believed in a philosophy of “financial synergy.” In practice, this meant his bonus was for a new golf club set, while my paycheck was for the mortgage, the groceries, and the constant, quiet dread of an overdraft fee.

The arguments were always the same. Me, with a spreadsheet pulled up on my laptop, pointing to the numbers in red. Him, waving a hand as if swatting a fly. “We make good money, Sarah. Why are you always so negative? Life is for living.” The living, I noticed, was always on his terms.

The turning point, the moment the secret was born, came on a Tuesday. I’d been paid a small freelance bonus—$250 for a writing project I’d done after putting the kids to bed. I mentioned it to David, and his eyes lit up. “Great! That’s almost half a share of the tech stock I was telling you about.” He didn’t ask. He absorbed. My effort, my late nights, became a line item in his portfolio.

That night, I took the $250 in cash from the bank. I held the bills in my hand, feeling their crisp texture. This was mine. Not ours. Mine. A thought, terrifying and exhilarating, whispered in my ear: What if you just kept it?

But where? A secret bank account felt too vast, too official, a declaration of war I wasn’t ready to make. The house was ours, every drawer and cabinet a shared space. Then, while making coffee the next morning, I saw it: my grandmother’s old ceramic sugar bowl. It was white with little blue flowers, chipped on the handle, a relic from a time before I was anyone’s wife or mother. We used a different, more modern canister now. This one sat in the back of the cupboard, full of nothing but dust and memory.

I lifted the lid. The inside was dark and cool. I folded the $250 and placed it at the bottom. It was an absurd hiding place, the kind a child would choose. But as I slid it back into the shadows, a profound sense of calm washed over me. This wasn’t a savings account. It was a seed.

From then on, I became a financial guerrilla. I’d intentionally round up the grocery bill in my mind and withdraw the difference at checkout. I started using a cash-back app and funneled the paltry earnings directly into my secret fund. When I sold the kids’ old clothes at a consignment store, the $28 went into the bowl. When I returned a birthday present from my mother (a sweater I didn’t like) and got $45 back, it went into the bowl. The amounts were small, insignificant to the man who tracked the Dow Jones. To me, they were bricks in a fortress. Each bill was a silent ‘no’ to his control and a quiet ‘yes’ to a future I couldn’t yet see.

The bowl became my confessional and my sanctuary. Sometimes, adding a twenty, I’d feel a pang of guilt. Was I lying? Was I stealing from my own family? But then I’d remember the powerlessness, the way my financial voice was always drowned out by his optimism. This money was my voice, stored in paper and silence. It was evidence that my work, my worry, had tangible value.

The secret changed me. It gave me a spine I didn’t know I needed. During arguments about money, I was calmer, because I had a plan. I had an exit I wasn’t sure I would ever use, but its mere existence was a shield. I started looking at my husband differently, not as a partner but as a roommate I was financially babysitting. The love didn’t vanish all at once; it seeped out, dollar by dollar, replaced by a cold, clear-eyed resolve. I realized I wasn’t just hiding money; I was hiding my evolving self, the one who was learning how to leave.

The bowl filled up. I had to transfer the cash to a sealed envelope tucked inside my winter boot in the back of the closet. The sugar bowl remained the symbolic vault. One day, after a particularly infuriating discussion where David had unilaterally decided to lease a new car, citing “image” as a key factor, I went to the bowl. I didn’t add money. I just held it. It was no longer a seed; it was a root, tethering me to a version of myself I had almost forgotten—one who had agency.

The end wasn’t explosive. It was a quiet fizzle. He found the envelope of cash tucked in my winter boot while searching for a missing glove. We went to marriage counseling. David called my secret fund “a betrayal of our vows.” The therapist, a kind woman with gentle eyes, asked him, “Why do you think Sarah felt the need to have a secret?” He couldn’t answer. He could only see the act, not the thousands of paper cuts that led to it.

When I finally left, it was a Tuesday, just like the day it all began. I didn’t take much. But I took the envelope from the boot. And I took the sugar bowl.

Today, I live in a small apartment. My name is the only one on the lease and the bank account. The sugar bowl sits on my kitchen counter, in plain sight. It doesn’t hold money anymore; it holds tea bags. But every time I see it, I remember. It’s my monument not to deceit, but to self-preservation. It reminds me that sometimes, the most honest thing you can do in a system that refuses to see you is to quietly, secretly, save yourself. The money was the means, but the secret was the message: I am worth saving.

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Argelia Salmon is a writer dedicated to amplifying stories of resilience and truth.Their work is featured in the latest “Enduring Voices” magazine (IHRAM Press, Q3 2025), a powerful collection on disability and neurodivergence, following their prior contribution to the “Invisible Chains” edition. They are the author of Ink and Eternity: Reflections on the Writer’s Path, a meditation on the writing life, available on Amazon.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Submit your Object-ives essay

Recommended reading on possessions:

“Why Secondhand Is Now Better Than New” by , The Honest Broker

“They’re Holding on to Their MetroCards, as OMNY Ends an Era” by Jose Martinez, The City

“A Love Letter to My Dutch Oven” by Jenny Rosenstrach, The New York Times

“Woman spends thousands transforming entire home into Monsters Inc. wonderland” by Lottie Von Henning, SWNS

I wish I could say I collect milk glass, but I don’t. I’m the keeper of someone else’s collection—a dead woman’s life work that I rescued from an estate sale almost twenty years ago.

The Blue Woman, as I think of her, lived in a house completely immersed in blue: blue carpet, blue couch, blue curtains. But it was her milk glass that caught my attention—hundreds of white pieces scattered throughout her home, filling a large area with shelves upon shelves. I’d never seen milk glass before that Sunday, but after buying her impossibly comfortable marine-blue couch, I couldn’t stop thinking about those pieces.

Milk glass—also known as opal glass—is an opaque white glass that resembles milk or porcelain. First made in Venice in the 16th century, it became wildly popular during the Victorian era as an affordable alternative to expensive Chinese porcelain that even George and Martha Washington collected. Production waned during the Great Depression but surged after World War II, when companies like Westmoreland, Fenton, Imperial Glass, and Anchor Hocking mass-produced it as wedding and shower gifts during the 1950s and 1960s, its white color symbolizing purity.

When I returned to the estate sale around 3 p.m., near closing time, the collection was still there. The sellers told me about the woman, about her most-prized possession, about all the hours she’d devoted to traveling the country, finding each piece. Something shifted in me. It hurt deeply that her life’s work was being sold separately—each vase, each candy dish priced individually—when she had scoured the earth to bring them together as a family.

I stood there, studying the shelves. Small bowls with lace edge patterns—intricate, openwork borders. Medium pieces with the raised Paneled Grape pattern, grapevine motifs climbing up their sides. Large sturdy vases. Candy dishes with the hobnail pattern—raised bumps like tiny nails that Fenton introduced in 1939 and became synonymous with milk glass design. Serving platters with scalloped, ruffled edges.

“I’d like to buy every piece of milk glass in the house,” I said. “How much?”

The sellers looked at each other, then back at me.

“Are you sure?” they asked. “It’s a lot. You’ll need a lot of room too.”

I paused. I thought about what I was doing. I didn’t collect milk glass. I’d never even heard of it before. But standing there, I felt connected to this woman I’d never met.

“I’m certain,” I said. “I want everything.”

We negotiated. I didn’t care about the price. I don’t recall how much we settled on, maybe $300, maybe $800, maybe even much more. I just wanted this woman to rest in her grave, knowing her collection went to someone who cares.

I made a promise that day: I would keep the collection together. I vowed to cherish it as the woman had. I vowed to cherish it as the woman had.

I grew up in a Holocaust survivor family. When my family came to America by ship, they came with nothing—no relics, no nostalgic items. I never had anything from my great-grandparents or even my grandparents. I longed to touch things they’d handled, to wear jewelry they once wore, to stab fried potatoes with forks their saliva once touched. My connection to others’ collections goes back to this deep desire for treasures to pass on to my two sons. If I couldn’t inherit them through my family, maybe I could purchase them.

The sellers told me to come back in several hours. They’d need at least that much time to box up the collection. When I returned, I loaded thirty bursting boxes of white and blue milk glass into my Lincoln Navigator, making multiple trips back and forth between the blue house and my car.

My husband and kids didn’t understand when I arrived home. Milk glass was Americana. We had no connection to this piece of American culture, something so far from our roots. But over several days, I unpacked every piece at my kitchen sink, washing away decades of dust, drying each with a soft cloth, my fingers tracing the hobnail patterns. I carried them individually to my great room and displayed them on red-painted shelves against cathedral ceilings stretching thirty feet high, admiring the shiny white bowls, candy dishes, and wine glasses.

Four years later, I got divorced. I moved into much smaller homes, but I packed, lugged, and unpacked my milk glass collection every time, despite it not fitting and taking up much-needed space. At one point, I even offered the collection on Facebook to a good home, free, of course, but no one responded. When I had unstable housing a few times after my kids were grown, I rented a storage unit to protect the glass rather than abandon it.

Several years ago, I bought a trailer, my first real home since the divorce. I pulled the milk glass from storage and paid movers to bring the heavy boxes to my tiny space. It’s here with me now, not displayed beautifully like it once was on those red shelves, but every piece is still with me. All parts remain one big happy family. No siblings have been separated.

In recent years, I’ve immersed myself in the world of milk glass collectors. I discovered the National Milk Glass Collectors Society and joined several milk glass groups on Facebook where collectors share their finds and knowledge. I plan to attend the Society’s annual convention—maybe not this year, but one year, yes.

Milk glass is my due inheritance, what I should have had from my ancestors if the Holocaust had never happened. I’m fiercely protective of it, as I am of the woman I bought it from. We adopted each other. She adopted me as her milk glass granddaughter, and I adopted her as my American grandmother who could collect.

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Dr. Tamara MC (she/her) is a writer published in over 90 outlets, including The New York Times, Newsweek, and HuffPost. The granddaughter of Holocaust survivors, she explores themes of inheritance, loss, and what we choose to keep. She has received fellowships from Bread Loaf and grants from the Arizona Commission on the Arts. Her book Poetry for English Language Learning is forthcoming from University of New Mexico Press (2026). Find her at www.tamaramc.com | @tamaramcphd

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

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Recommended reading on possessions:

“The Last Ornament” by Ciara McElroy,

“Decluttering Advice for Artists” by , Scribbles in the Sky

“9-year-old Ohio boy collecting hundreds of bears for patients at children’s hospital,” WHIOTV

“Antique Collectors of a Younger Vintage” by Emma Orlow, The New York Times

“‘Like hitting a lotto ticket.’ Why sports memorabilia collectors pursue chase cards,” by Anthony Solorzano, Los Angeles Times