Honestly, it doesn’t take much.
That’s one of the places where Daryl and I really connect. We remember everything—or at least it feels that way. People. Places. Things. We’re deeply attached to the nouns around us. I can pick up a pen and tell you where it came from and why it matters. Not in a vague way, either. In a this exact moment, this exact feeling kind of way.
I often carry a blue Cross pen with me. I got it more than ten years ago as a farewell gift from the church job I had in Marietta, Georgia. I don’t think anyone who gave it to me had any idea how long it would stay with me. But every time I use it, I’m back there—closing a chapter, stepping into uncertainty, carrying both gratitude and loss in the same pocket.
That way of thinking is probably why I collect shot glasses. They aren’t souvenirs to me. They’re remembrances. Each one is tied to a place I’ve been, a trip I took, a moment that mattered. When I look at them, it’s like taking a short trip somewhere else—mostly around the country, since the international ones were gifts from friends and family who carried a piece of the world back to me.
Nostalgia sneaks up on me through other doors, too. Movies. TV shows. Songs. Books. Especially now that both of my parents are gone.
The Sound of Music will always belong to my mom. It was one of her favorites, and she once played Maria in a community production. She loved that story so much that she even taught us to talk in Cockney accents like Eliza and her father, just for fun. I can still hear her voice doing it.
Arthur, with Dudley Moore, belongs to my dad. We went to see a lot of movies together, but that one stuck. It might be my favorite movie of all time—and not just because of the film itself. It’s because I sat next to him in a dark theater, laughing at the same lines, sharing something that didn’t know yet it would become a memory.
My stepdad gave me something that now sits on my desk at school. It was meant to remind me of the responsibility I carry as a husband and a father. Now that he’s gone, that object carries even more weight. It isn’t just a reminder anymore—it’s a legacy.
There are other things on my desk, too. Small tokens from Lizzi. Quiet reminders that I’m still someone’s dad, no matter how old she gets. And at home, next to my desk, there’s a page from a Bluey coloring book that Sullivan left behind. It’s just paper and crayon—but I can’t bring myself to move it.
It doesn’t take much to make me nostalgic. A pen. A song. A movie. A scrap of paper. These things aren’t clutter to me. They’re proof. Proof that I’ve loved and been loved. Proof that moments mattered—even the ordinary ones. Proof that the past is still close enough to touch.
Copyright © 2025 Doug DeBolt.
