It's Not the Things

It's not the things that I love
of the things that I love;
Rather it's the love behind
the things that I love
that I love.

That is a poem that I wrote long ago, but which came back in a flash when my dog stole and destroyed a trinket that had belonged to my mother, who is now deceased. After I threw a tantrum, which the dog did not understand, I had to find my peace. I love my dog more than anything he can destroy... except my cats, of course. My mother is not the things she left behind. My dog cannot destroy my memories. The things only hold meaning to me; only my memories give them life. We are in the process of cleaning out my parents' home, now that they have passed on. The house is full of objects whose meaning and memory faded away with my parents. The objects in my home have no life of their own without me. When I have passed on, someone will stand and gaze at these things and wonder if any bit is an heirloom, a treasure, or a trinket. When I am gone, they will have no value to me. While I am here, do they really hold any value? 'Tis a gift to be simple.