Objects of Power

Objects have power, but not all powerful objects are fancy or powerful looking. It’s the classic ending to Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, where the chalice of Jesus was a simple wooden cup. Because he was the son of a carpenter, you see. Look, if you didn’t get that reference, I really can’t help you. 

When we left Ireland in 2011, we stored a lot of stuff in our families homes, and our amazing friends held on to a bunch of my board games. Each time we’ve travelled home since, we’ve come back with a bit more of our past lives in tow. Books, games, figures, objects that we hold dear and that are important to us. 

But those objects were placed in safe keeping for that reason. They were important to us. 

Before we left Ireland I working in a preschool with a wonderful group of kids and their family’s. Before leaving, I received some lovely gifts in thanks, and while I’m certain there were lovely chocolates, wine (I know, but, whatcha gonna do?), deodorant (long story) and other very thoughtful things, one would become and unexpected Object of Power that endures to this day. 

One of the girls I worked with took a little more work to connect with. An only child, she had some minor behavioural issues. I’m no trained child psychologist or behavioural therapist, but I think she might have had some mild autism, or ADHD. She had difficulty controlling her emotions, and rarely made eye contact. But with love and patience, we became good friends, and I really enjoyed working with her, and I like to think, she enjoyed her time with me. 

My parting gift from her family was a wonderful, warm, woolen sweater. They knew I was Canada-bound, and had apparently spent time there before their daughter was born. 

I still have that sweater. I still wear it every year when the cold starts to creep in. Every time I go to my closet in late autumn or early winter and push back the t-shirts and light hoodies that take up most of the space to pull out that sweater, I think of that family. 

I hope they’re doing well, where ever they are. I hope they occasionally think of me. And I hope that some day, some how, I can tell them how much their gift from eleven years ago still means to me.