The Bottle

The Bottle

There it sits, on the corner of my desk at home. To any bystander, it would simply look like a well used plastic bottle with a straw hanging over the lip. One day, someone walked by and asked, “How long are you going to keep that battered, old bottle around?” Obviously, this person had seen the bottle for quite some time, yet the bottle was always empty. I suppose she kept wondering why I would keep an empty bottle on my desk. It was then that I realized that what appears as trash to one means something entirely different to another. I began to think about this quandary of how much meaning things have in our lives. I thought about all the times I would go through other people’s “stuff” and not even think twice about tossing out a well-worn sweater or pair of shoes.

When my husband and I married and combined our two houses into one, I remember going through the kitchen boxes from his place and wondering about all the old appliances and cookware he had. I quickly started to toss out things before I even asked him. He walked into the kitchen and saw a box full of old things and asked me where they were going. When I told him “in the trash,” he sternly told me no. He then explained that several of the items were from his grandmother and great-grandmother. “Okay” I thought, “sentimental stuff that I’ll never use.” I found a spot for them in the back, way back cabinet. And, once again, I didn’t give any thought to those appliances. Five years have gone by now, and not once have they been used, but that’s not the point.

I’m a thrift store junkie and will go shopping whenever given the opportunity. I used to go to get a good deal on something, but, now, I have a completely different perspective,--post-bottle.  As I sort through the knick-knacks and trinkets of others, I start to imagine what type of person previously owned them and what they meant to them.  Sometimes I go overboard and dwell a bit too much, especially over knitted baby blankets and things made by children. Who could ever part with these things? Maybe I’m too sentimental and hang on to too much stuff, but it is not the value of the item, but the meaning.

You see, that bottle was not just a battered, old plastic bottle at all. That bottle and the straw were my father’s, from which he sipped his last sip of water. It was so battered because we went through many bottles, trying to find the perfect one that he could hold comfortably, one in which the straw would stand upright and wouldn’t spill when he sipped water in bed. That bottle represents the fight he gave and the struggles he faced during his battle. That bottle represents life, hope and death. I think it will hang around a while longer.