Treasure

I understand some things now. Things that I didn’t understand or really ever think about before. Like children’s treasures - a pink hair band, a patterned plaster, a coloured stone, a twisted shell. When you’re a child, they’re treasures almost just - because. Because everything is magical, because you know nothing about anything, so you somehow know everything about everything at the same time.

Wonder, is what I’m describing, I suppose. Things are treasures because they are yours, because you found them. It’s about discovering yourself even more than the treasures and the magic and the wonder, about finding out what your tastes are, how you interact with the world. When you’re an adult, your children’s treasures are precious because of the awareness they now bring. Sometimes gradually, sometimes subconsciously, sometimes suddenly. The awareness that the time of treasures, of a pink hair band being the best thing in the world, and a coloured stone being able to heal hurts and ward off danger; is so fleeting.

Now I understand why my father kept things like that in his pockets for years. Things I found and asked him to carry and then forgot all about. Bits of coloured green glass, smoothed by endless buffeting by the ocean into pebbles, conkers, bits of broken china that seem to be in every back garden, white with remnants of blue pattern on them. His jackets still hang in his wardrobe, and every pocket still holds treasures.