there's a flashlight in my kitchen drawer that stopped working two years ago. i keep it anyway. i don't know why. it's not sentimental — i bought it at a hardware store, it's not from anyone, it doesn't mean anything. it just stays.
i think about this sometimes. the things we keep after they stop working. the broken watch. the pen that's out of ink. the jacket with the zipper that won't close. they're not useful anymore. they're not beautiful. they're just there.
what the keeping means
i don't think it's about the object. i think it's about the relationship with the object. the flashlight worked for three years. it was reliable. it was there when i needed it. the way objects accumulate meaning through use is real — a thing that has served you well carries something even after it stops serving you.
or maybe it's simpler than that. maybe keeping broken things is just inertia. maybe i keep the flashlight because throwing it away requires a decision and keeping it doesn't. i'm not sure the distinction matters.
the objects that earn their place
the things i make — the things made by hand in California — are made to last. not forever. but longer than they need to. longer than the market requires. because i think there's something worth preserving in the relationship between a person and an object that has served them well.
the flashlight in my drawer is a failed version of that. it served me, and then it stopped, and i kept it anyway. the attachment that outlasts function is strange and human and i don't fully understand it. but i recognize it. and i think it's worth making things that earn that kind of keeping.