You just know when you connect with something. You may not know why you connect with it, but you know it's meant to be yours. That's what happened when I went thrifting with my mom yesterday. We were looking for a filing cabinet for my sister and I stumbled upon this old farmhouse-looking medicine cabinet. I couldn't take my eyes and hands off it, but mom, in her haste ushered me out of the store before I could whisk it away with me. As I got further away from the store, I felt it pulling me back and all day and night I thought about it. Unfortunately, I had two things working against me. There wasn't enough time to go back, and my mom kept telling me I didn't need it. She was just toying with me though, I've come to decide.
I went back today and bought it. It was marked $20 but the shop owner let it go for $15. So I brought it home, cleaned it up and now I am in the process of deciding where to hang it. I picture it like a piece of artwork, hanging above my computer station with others similar in nature. A hanging storage art collection. I love everything about this one. I adore the old weathered hardware and how the clasp catches slightly so you have to use two hands to open it. I wonder how many other fingers grasped that handle and pulled.
I adore the totally crackled mirror and all of the intricate patterns it makes. How many faces have looked into that mirror and how many expressions has the mirror been witness to, young and old alike? How many people has it seen age, just like it has through the years, their wrinkles appearing before it, just as it had "wrinkled" itself...
I love the curved and rusty hinges that have held it together for so long, worked so hard, and never complained about the load it bared. Silently, happily holding together and hiding the belongings inside.
I even love the little nail embedded inside the cabinet. What hung there before I bought it? Was it a necklace or a wedding ring? Was it a priceless bracelet or an old farmer's watch?
There's a lot to love about this old medicine cabinet, in all its weathered, aged imperfections.
And now it's mine.