a pocket full of memories

I will never not be sentimental. If I could pocket any tangible evidence of love, I would. So I did.

My grandpa had a denim jacket. It was gorgeous and so cool. I remember teasing him about stealing his shirts because, you know, giant, oversized shirts are a vibe. I told him I would go through his closet, and I remember when he came to visit and, as he got out of the car, he called for me to come down because he had something for me.

It was that beautiful, light blue denim jacket. I wasn’t even in high school yet. I sported it for years, even though it had tattered edges, and the collar held on for dear life. I held on to it for dear life anyway.

Then I lent it to my friend, and she held on to it for months until it circled back to me.

Last year, we had an issue with the place we were staying at while working, and the jacket was destroyed, too. It was in one piece, but no longer wearable.

You’d think I’d be ready to let it go then, at least.

Of course not. Grandpa’s not here anymore, and I’d have to go through a lot of self-work to stop holding on to grief the way I do.

But I don’t think it’s a bad thing. It’s not like I’m a hoarder. And I found a new way to use that jacket. Here’s a little DIY I did. A pocket full of memories.

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I am also a crow by nature. Trinkets are an essential decoration in my room. My understanding of interior design is… well, it might sound like a hoarder justifying the mess, but I promise it’s well organized and not too much. I just grew up romanticizing the clutter of grandma’s house, all the random things that had a purpose (!!) but were also memories. A unique piece of a life passed that you can’t find elsewhere.

Like the wooden pen holder that was unique to my grandparents’ house. Nowhere else in the world could such a recognizably their pen holder exist.

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This is a musical cookie tin box. Inside is everything from a rainbow of old ribbons to Kinder Joy figurines, friendship bracelets, and weirdly shaped pebbles. The melody is soothing, just a magical whisper when I reach for the lid.

It’s much like my heart. A bunch of tiny little pieces of love I hang on to, for dear life.