The Importance of Treasured Items

I’ve never been one for sentimentality. I’ve taken no interest in collecting trinkets or preserving family heirlooms. But I know this lack of sentimental attachment isn’t specific to me. We live in an overwhelmingly consumerist society, so it seems ridiculous to darn a sock or mend a strap when you can replace your most beloved items in just a few clicks. 

I did, however, begin to grapple with this idea after a recent visit to my Grans. We curled up  on the sofa and opened up a photo album. Each page was presented with nothing but pride. Signposted under every picture in neat calligraphy was the date and location. The whole album was surprisingly still in pristine condition. I felt my heart swell as I flicked through the pages of my grandmother’s life. Her first dance, electric with anticipation. Her wedding day, still radiant with love. Her mother’s funeral, veiled only in grief. 

In a sense, I felt that I lived in these photos too. I saw myself in her smile, saw her hope for the future now alive within me. It was a privilege to go back and meet her in her twenties. I wondered if we would be friends, what she’d think of all my piercings and tattoos. 

Now, I don’t have a shortage of photos. Actually, an embarrassing amount of my camera roll consists of selfies. But one thing I’m sure of is that getting my future kid to engage with a photo on an ancient phone won’t succeed. Unlike my grandmother’s album, my virtual one remains defiantly unorganised. I may have a few treasured pics with friends and family, but they’ve got lost among an array of boring screenshots and shopping receipts. Photographs are becoming increasingly less valuable. The average person has over two thousand pictures on their phone, yet how many of those hold sentimental value? Flicking through your camera roll is not a tactile experience. There’s no smell of old paper or the sound of pages turning. A swipe lasts half a second, leaving no time to appreciate the past. The physical photo is dying, and it’s something that we shouldn’t let go of. Every time I’ve gone into a photobooth with my friends, usually far too drunk, I make sure to protect that little instant print with all my might. Perhaps it’s not that I lack a sentimental streak; I just haven’t found the right way to express it. 

I’ve decided to create a memory box. It was hard to find objects I felt connected to, other than my phone, which I mother like a baby. The main motivator to keep up my search stems from a desire to connect with a possible future family. I want them to remember me, even if it’s through a scrappy Polaroid chucked next to a flight ticket and a bit of old crochet. The contents of the box certainly won’t be as polished as my Grans album- but I’m hoping the lack of organisation gives an insight into my personality, albeit a chaotic one. As long as this box lives on, so will the memory of me.