The children stopped by to rummage through the garage, with permission of course. They were working to gather stage props for an upcoming play set in the 1800’s.

They’d screamed in excitement when opening a box partially filled with old and rusted tools. It was something my grandma had given me when I was a girl, and it once belonged to my grandfather. I’d written “Keepsakes” on the outside of the box, but hadn’t opened it in twenty years so laughed in surprise at how they’d been forgotten.

They asked if they could use them, but before I said yes, I explained that tools weren’t as vintage as they believed, and that although efficiency has its place in history, it can’t replace the need to get our hands dirty, or examine and fix the temporal workings of an undoubtedly torn world. They didn’t get it, but hell, I didn’t get it, but knew I needed to say it so did.

I don’t suppose grandma thought I’d ever be interested in mechanical things, or maybe she did. Maybe in her own way she was imparting to me a truth about the rusted theories of time, because the tools back then are still the tools of now. A hammer is still a hammer and a wrench still a wrench. The again, maybe she was just tired of looking at those tools and wanted to clean out her garage. I’ll never know.

What I do know, is that all of creation has a purpose, and that what it might be in one person’s eyes need not matter to what is seen in another’s. I know those kids believed they found some kind of treasure, but I think all discoveries lead to finding some kind of recognition within ourselves.

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