Little Owl Coin Bank, Aka Memory Vault
You are part of my story. Part of the stories told me by my Mum, when she needed to call forth the good chapters from her own story. Perhaps because you are part of what keeps our story connected, you might be able to feel the essence of this message for you. Can you hear my words through the heartache that is swelling when I think about you?
You are maybe just a small ceramic item, but you are more than that. You mean something. You are one of those material possessions that is listed in the treasures of a life time. No one else could look upon you and know your value. And yet you are precious, to me. You are the connector of generations, the keeper of secrets. You have held money, love notes, sticky tack. Right now you hold coins from countries I have never been. Coins I couldn’t trade for useful currency. Coins that link a new generation to a side of his family he may never know. And 2 coins from people I will not likely see again. You are the keeper of links, of stories. Your heavy clay body, which I can hold in my two hands. You I kept safe when so much else was broken. You are a piece, a thing, something I care about.
You have a story of your own. My Mum, holding tight to her stomach and my unborn self, with all the will she could muster. Willing me to be born safely, to survive when that first baby didn’t. Born before me, her fears and superstitions. Her best Uncle, she tells it, he made you. He potted you, if that is the correct term. He spun you into existence on a potter’s wheel. And waited until I was born, safely breathing, to add my name and birthdate onto your clay. Then you were sealed, like the love between mother and new babe. She used to tell me he waited to meet me, waited until after I was born to die. You connect us all in some way. And now you connect me to a place I have tried to leave behind.
I left you behind. Again. And I regret this whole heartedly. You are like a symbolic link between myself and generations gone. Your heavy gray-green body is precious to me. And yet again I drove away from you. I know you are wrapped safely, housed within paper and plastic, safely stored amongst the few pieces of my Mother’s collection. And I know when I have set up my new home, you will again look across my room at me, the guardian of my history. Maybe the keeper of coins.
The first time I left you behind I was also leaving a life behind. I was 13, a frightened passenger in the back of a car. I clutched my pillow, and didn’t think of you until we were safe. And then like a heartache I realized I had not brought you. I did not expect you back. But like a gesture of hope, you were released to me. And so I know that I will have you back again, my treasure, my little owl coin bank. When the time is right. Stay safe my friend. And forgive me.