There’s a soft, brown cotton sweater hanging on a hook in my closet that I slip on when I wake.  Mornings can sometimes be chilly in L.A., and even though I’m Minnesota born and bred, I’ve lived in California so long that 60 degrees can seem downright freezing.

The sweater was worn by my dear friend Elaine.  She died of ovarian cancer in 1999, and I think of her every morning I put it on.  It’s a piece of clothing that probably didn’t hold much significance to her when she was alive, but it’s become something I treasure.  

When my father passed away in 2012, I grabbed the belt that he used to wear — black leather with a heavy silver buckle.  My brother-in-law added a few extra notches to the worn strap so it fits me, the end of it wrapping past my right side.  It almost feels like he’s hugging me when I thread it through the loops on my jeans.  I also treasure his cigarette case — a gift from his parents on his 21st birthday when smoking was what everyone did.

I think about a car that we recently sold.  It was a 2008 Camry.  It certainly wasn’t a sexy automobile, but living in Los Angeles, I experienced a lot of life in that car.  Of course there were the mundane trips to run life’s errands, but there was also the day we brought home our sweet rescue doggy Sally.  I held her in my lap in the back seat, the start of getting to know each other.  (Just before the car door was shut, the humane society employee whispered in her ear, “You get a fresh start.”)  There were the phone conversations I had with my Mom while sitting in traffic.  And the occasional regretful musings on the drive home from auditions of what I might have done differently.

The Camry had nearly 200,000 miles on it, so it was time to say goodbye.  I cried when it was driven away in a trade-in for something new.  I know, it’s just a car. But as Lindsay reminded me, cars are the modern-day version of a cowboy’s horse.  It’s not just an animal.  It’s not just a car.  It’s our partner.

But it’s all just stuff, right? Tell that to all those who lost their heart possessions in the January fires.

Experts want us to get rid of our stuff.  Books have been written and businesses have been created on how to eliminate the clutter around us.  How many garages do you know that don’t house automobiles, but rather “stuff?”  I’ve got more than my share of closets to go through and junk drawers to weed.

My mother-in-law, Lee, cherished two plush giraffes.  When she passed away, they came back to our house, all the way from Tucson in the back of an SUV.  Measuring nearly five feet tall, where in the world were these two going to live?  We positioned them in the living room, figuring they would eventually find another home.  Nearly two years later, they are in the same spot, spying out the front window with watchful long-lashed eyes.  Every time I sit down on the couch and I look at those giraffes, I think of Lee.  Those giraffes aren’t going anywhere.

Going through my Mom’s possessions since her passing, I saw the things she held precious. She had down-sized from the house I grew up in, to a townhome, to assisted living.  So the things that mattered most to her were very clear.  She had a special wooden box with silk-lined padding where she kept things like her high school report cards, homemade Mother’s Day cards we had given her as kids, prayer cards from family who had passed away and even a couple of playbills from shows I was in.  

She held dear a hurricane kerosene lamp from her days growing up on the farm in Wisconsin.  And she prized her Shirley Temple coloring book — not only for the nostalgia of Shirley, but for how well she colored within the lines at such a young age.

We all know the adage: You can’t take it with you.  (Who wants my scrapbooks from grade school?  Any takers?)  But, each item is an artifact of a person’s life.  We learn about our loved ones by what they hold dear.  And we learn about ourselves through them.  

I think more than anything, we keep the memories of those loved ones alive when we can touch and smell — or even pet — (thinking of you, Mr. and Mrs. Giraffe) something that was theirs.  When we cherish the things of a loved one, it can “stand in” for them.  The “stuff” becomes the vessel of connection.  It becomes the stuff that matters.  Until we see them again.