At book club the other night, we were knee-deep in conversation about The Nightingale when
the subject of Vianne’s trunk came up. For those who’ve read the novel, you know what I
mean—it wasn’t just luggage. It was her life’s story, packed tight in one stubborn,
beloved container. Her son begged her to leave it behind, but she wouldn’t.
That trunk led us to a simple, but profound question:
What do you own that is meaningful enough to pass down?
As we went around the room, each woman shared her treasures—jewelry, quilts, recipe boxes,
a handwritten Bible. But when it came to me, I paused.
I realized something surprising: I don’t really have things to pass down to Breely and
Abby Clair, my granddaughters.
The Trouble with Trinkets
When my mother died, we spent weeks sorting through her lifetime of collected items.
Beanie Babies. Hummel figurines. Norman Rockwell plates. All lovingly displayed, all
purchased with the hope that they’d one day be valuable. They were her treasures. Her
identity, in a way.
We thought maybe we could sell them to collectors. We couldn’t.
No one was left who cared about them.
No one thought these things were special anymore.
I kept only the Hallmark ornaments we bought each year since 1970. They weren’t worth
anything on eBay, but they were worth everything to me. Not because of what they were—but
because of what they meant. They held the memory of moments: laughing around the tree,
sipping cocoa, carefully unboxing each year’s addition to the family tradition.
And that’s when it hit me:
The next generation doesn’t always value the same things we do.
A New Kind of Legacy
So I decided right then and there—I won’t try to save things for my children and
grandchildren.
Instead, I’ll share myself.
I want Breely and Abby Clair to remember time spent in my studio—paint-splattered aprons,
glitter in our hair, sticky glue fingers, and big messy smiles. I want them to remember
creating, not collecting. I want them to see that life is not about acquiring beautiful
things… it’s about making beautiful things.
And maybe even more importantly, I want to leave them a story.
Through journaling and blogging, I’m creating a kind of living time capsule. They’ll know
what I cared about.
What I feared.
What I overcame.
Where I found beauty.
Where I failed.
What I prayed for.
What made me laugh.
They won’t have to rummage through a garage full of forgotten boxes to find me.
They’ll find me in my words, in my paintings, in every messy, wonderful memory we made
together.
So What’s in My Trunk?
Not porcelain plates or priceless gems.
Not figurines or collectible stamps.
What’s in my trunk is this:
- A worn-out studio apron stained with love
- Pages of journal entries that tell the truth
- Paintings that whispered what I couldn’t always say out loud
- A thousand shared moments around a table with a glue gun and a dream
- And two little girls who will grow up knowing exactly who I was
That’s what I’ll leave behind.
That’s what will matter.
Would You Like to Add?
What’s in your trunk?
Leave a comment and share what treasures—or stories—you hope to pass down. It doesn’t have
to be valuable to be priceless