It strikes me how ordinary objects we use every day can hold such powerful meaning. At one moment they are simply a pen or a coffee mug. But with a singular event, the ordinary can be transformed into a cherished connection to our past.
A year ago, I was cleaning out the bathroom closet at my parents’ house. My father had passed away the previous year and my mother had come to live with us. I was beginning to clean out their house and the closet had probably not been gone through in years. Well, definitely not as evidenced by some of the treasures I found in the recesses of those deep shelves. 
I easily discarded the bottles of expired lotions, salves and ointments. Throwing out the sanitary napkins dating back to the 70s was also a no-brainer as was the back scratching cleaning sponge my Dad used for bathing. The faded and repeatedly mended bath towels would become cleaning rags. Several bottles of perfume received as gifts had collected on one shelf (my annual present to my Mom – apparently not a good idea), but found a new resting place inside my black trash bag.
Useful and “non-perishable” items such as Band-Aids, gauze, athletic tape and Ace bandages made their way into a small “To Keep” box. Cakes of soap, a knee brace, rubbing alcohol and nail polish remover made the “save it” cut as well. But one saved collection of items in that box represents a precious memory – my father’s old shaving things. The white ceramic cup still contained a bit of hard, dried up Old Spice shaving cream. The horsehair brush rested t
here as well. I remember mornings as a little girl when I would get up and join my Father in the bathroom for his morning shaving ritual. He’d add water to the shaving mug and whip the water and Old Spice into a frothy lather with the bristles of his small brush. I’d watch him spread the cream all over his chin and cheeks, carefully dab under his nose, cover his neck and then finish off with a little dab, just for me, right on my nose. He’d smile and I’d giggle before wiping it off.
Then came the razor. This was not your green plastic twin-blade from the local pharmacy. This was serious business. Dad’s razor was the old fashioned kind. Gold, single-bladed – the kind you replaced every few shaves. And it feels weighty in your hand, because it had serious work to do, so it needed to look and be impressive. I’d watch the downward strokes on the cheeks, the slow movement under the lip, the long upward movements on the neck until the job was finished and Dad’s smooth face reappeared.
I loved this morning ritual. A few special moments spent with my Dad before he headed off for the day. I never really thought back on this time in all the years since then, but that little white cup and brush reminded me. They reconnected me to the past and in the same moment brought a smile to my lips and a twang of sorrow to my heart. And so I will cherish them, because I cherished my Dad.