Something Old Is New Again

There are lessons to be learned along life's way every year, month, and day. There are memories that filter in and out of our consciousness every day like water ebbing and flowing, gently and in tranquil form hoping we take notice. Unfortunately, in our filled and busy lifestyles, we seldom take notice.

A few weeks ago I finally tackled something that I had been meaning to do for many years but to say it was procrastination would be inappropriate. It was more indecisiveness.

There is a piece of furniture that was my mother's that I inherited simply because she lived with me. At the time my mother passed away, she had been living with me and so when she passed, I kept her bedroom dresser unable and unwilling to part with it. It was a very old piece of furniture that had been carefully and lovingly kept in excellent shape. It was a dresser with a beautiful mirror; a dresser whose drawers were gigantic and held the look and feel of good craftsmanship.

But many years after she passed, the piece had begun to look shabby and old and so, one rainy day, with the help of my husband, we put the dresser at the curb to be taken away by whoever wanted it and if no one claimed it, then to be gone in that week's trash.

A half hour later my daughter comes home and enters the house with tears in her eyes, "Why are you throwing away Abuelita's (grandma's) dresser?" I did not know she held such a strong emotional attachment to it and seeing this, my husband and I went to the curb to retrieve it and bring it back into the house. By that point, however, someone had already claimed its beautiful mirror.

Though better days had been had, to put it in the garage or basement out of sight's way was just as inconceivable and insensitive considering her attachment to it. And so, it went back into my mother's former bedroom, and the choice of buying new bedroom furniture to replace it was now made. It's not important. If it means that much to her, then here it will stay. There was a part of me that felt bad at not having the same reaction as my daughter but I still had many good pieces of my mother's furniture in the home and so I felt that this one piece, if gone, would not matter much in the scheme of things. How wrong was I to think that. There was another person in the home whom I had not considered and whose memories of her grandmother were birthed by the sight and feel of this piece.

And so, the furniture stayed in my mother's former bedroom, now a guest bedroom. Over the years, it received a few more nicks, scratches and cracks and its lustre began to fade with the passage of time. Years later, during a shabby chic stage, I decided to paint it. To recreate the exact same look I had in a different color I found ironic but shabby chic in light colors was in and not the current dark color it lived in. But then the Beloved came home just as I had started to paint it and vetoed immediately my project. He said I was ruining the piece by doing that but by then I felt it was too late as I had already painted the top. Since I had not yet touched the remainder of the furniture, he opined, "cover the top with some nice fabric, but don't continue painting it, you're gonna ruin it." I heeded his advice and stopped painting and proceeded to, over the next couple of years, to cover the top with beautiful fabrics that would match the decor.

And every time I'd enter the bedroom and look at the piece it brought memories of my mother. I remembered the day she had bought it at a tag sale from the lady across the street who was now moving to a nursing home and how at the time it was bought, it was an old piece already but in excellent, beautiful condition. I remembered how it occupied her bedroom and how I would covet it over the years, gliding my hand over it and admiring its antique look. But it no longer looked like that. It's beautiful era was gone and now it was old, aged and in need of help.

And then, a few months ago, in the spurt of focused decisiveness, I went to the paint store, bought a gallon of black paint, new knobs and proceeded to tackle the former shell of a once beautiful piece and give it new life. I tackled the project on a hot day with beads of sweat rolling down my face and back and a smile on my face. I took off its antique knobs (which I saved and plan to use them somewhere else) and proceeded to sand it down. I got my wood filler from the garage and carefully and unhurried stayed in the moment giving life to something that represented another life. It was a day when the Beloved was at work and so I was left alone to my thoughts. Each stroke bringing memories to the front and I felt my mother's presence very strongly with me that day.

By the end of the day it looked like this. What was formerly my mother's, had now become mine.

And not having had its original mirror anymore, I had taken a trip to a thrift

shop in search of a mirror and found a solid, heavy piece for $10 which I painted and mounted. The piece had been transformed beautifully and with tears in my eyes I thanked my daughter for having had the foresight at such a young age to see the importance and meaning of a piece owned by one whom we loved so much. Like my mother, this piece of furniture had been strong and solid and carried whatever I gave it even when it was aging and tired. But now, aged and in need of help, like I had once done with my mother, it was now my turn to do the same with her beloved piece. The facelift given gave it new life and reminded me again of one of life's most sagest of lessons: that even old, tired things still have purpose, can still offer beauty, can still offer support, and still matter. We just have to let it.