The bell of the door twinkled as I stepped onto the rickety wooden floor of the antique shop. I inhaled deeply, taking in the aroma of the eclectic knickknacks. The nostalgia overwhelmed me, bringing me to the point of tears as I remembered walking through similar shops with my mother. She was always on the hunt for the next odd trinket to place in the house or in the yard. Her style was unique, filling our house with wonky sculptures and peculiar paintings. At one point she brought a mannequin home, dressed it in a chic ensemble, and placed it in the dining room.
It’s funny how a smell can do that to you; flood your mind with memories of a time sweeter than the moment. I walked around, zigzagging through the maze of objects, and then I found it. It was an Alice in Wonderland book, dated in 1924. The tattered cover and soft, yellow tinted pages could not have been more perfect. She was obsessed with all things Alice in Wonderland. I knew if she could have chosen to be buried with anything, it was that book. That was three years ago. Now every time I step into my apartment I’m surrounded by different objects my mother had picked out from random garage sales and antique shops. Little things that any other person would look past, my mom viewed as treasure. She always got so excited when she came home with a new decoration and I’m proud to say I inherited her skills in décor.
A piece of my mom lives when I purchase a new item to embellish the walls of my home or to line the tops of my cabinets. I wish I could share it with her. I often find myself wondering, “what would Jodie buy,” as I rummage through hand-me-down goods. Mom would have been proud of my décor of choice. My apartment may look like an organized antique store to any other person, but to me, it’s a piece of my mom that I get to have with me forever.