Changes are hard, whether they're made by choice, or foisted upon us. At the moment, I'm in unfamiliar territory: new house, a new neighborhood, a different commute. Some of my belongings are gone; no space for them here. I search for the best place to put the sugar, the toothpaste, the dishtowels. In my old house, everything had its place; here, I've moved the silverware three times because I can't decide which drawer works best. Ah, changes.
Then yesterday, I was preparing a post about the French and the utility of kitchen scissors. I went to get my own kitchen shears, and when I spied them in the drawer, it was like seeing an old friend in a crowd of strangers.
These kitchen scissors have been in my family for as long as I can remember. There's nothing special about them; they're a vintage Wiss with green handles, though the paint has all but worn away. Holding them brought on a rush of familiarity, and strange comfort. I started thinking of all the hands that had held those scissors--my parents, my sister and brother, my husband, my son.
Tomorrow I am hosting Thanksgiving; in a few hours my house will be filled with familiar smells and sounds, with family and friends, and I believe my new house will begin to feel familiar.