My parents recently moved into a new home, just blocks away from us now instead of a forty-five minute drive. And the move meant a downsize from three bedrooms to two. A couple of days into packing, Mom called and asked if we wanted my old bedroom furniture. I didn't hesitate to say yes. No, we didn't really have room for it. But yes, I couldn't wait to make the room for something so special.
I can remember going with my parents to pick up that very furniture set when I was about six years old. It was already "vintage" then, a hand-me-down from my mom's aunt and uncle. Their last "little girl" had just gotten married and moved away, and they were doing some downsizing of their own.
So, home the furniture came with us. It was white. And feminine. And full of drawers for stowing away all my treasures.
And it was my furniture from then on, right on through my high school years. And then my sister's after that.
My nine year old was thrilled when we brought it home for her, even more so when I showed her my "secret cubby hole" in the desk where I stored my diary. For the last week, she's been a faithful diary writer, determined to follow in my footsteps.
And when I look at that somewhat shabby furniture now, all squeezed into my daughter's room, I can't help picturing all the years of girls it has known.
Girls getting ready in the morning in front of that large dresser mirror.
Girls working through math problems at that desk.
Girls talking on the phone with their feet propped up on that nightstand.
And even while I look at a black haired girl bent over the desk today, I can picture another generation down the road, where it might be my granddaughter who's hiding her diary in the cubby hole.
Beaten up furniture. Every scratch with a story. Every drawer holding treasures of memory.
Sometimes old is better than new.
