In May of 2013, we celebrated my long-awaited graduation from Clemson University. Our celebration necessarily involved a cake with orange and purple frosting. By the end of the evening, I noticed a sizeable purple streak of frosting that had been ground into the carpet. I didn’t think too much of it, knowing that our carpet was already in need of replacement (it has been since we moved in).
But about a year ago, I noticed the spot again. And this time, it distinctly resembled a tiny handprint. At that point, I realized that the spot was more than a mess—it was a memory. It’s a reminder of that party, and the accomplishment of finishing school, and a time when the kids were even smaller than they are now.
The realization triggered another memory; of when my sisters and I were younger. In those days, we would work on our homework at the kitchen table. But invariably, we would forget to put a protective barrier between our work and the table. As a result, years later, you could look closely at the table and make out the remnants of whatever we were working on—math problems, handwriting, whatever. Some would think of those as unsightly scars—but if I could have kept that table, I think I would have. Indeed, when we do eventually replace our carpet, I just might keep that little swatch—the one with a handprint that I will always cherish.