They're memories mostly.
Images in our minds of a place or a person.
Maybe the scent of something baking in the kitchen.
Perhaps a song that takes you back to another day and time.
Every once in a while, though, it's something tangible.
Something that you can touch.
A real, physical connection to the people and the places that are gone.
Before the city tore down the house that my grandparents and great grandparents had lived in for over 40 years, I took a knob off of one of the kitchen cabinets.
I also have a brick from the front porch.
They're nice to have, but they just sit in a closet.
But every spring, when I look out my window, I see peonies popping up in my garden.
And when they bloom, there will big beautiful flowers in shades of pink and purple.
The flowers from these plants were cut and taken to the cemeteries every Memorial Day.
Their flowers were put in a vase on the kitchen table as the prelude to my Gram's roses every summer.
They're a connection to my past.
They're living reminders of the memories I hold in my mind.
And if I ever leave this place where they grow now, they'll go with me.