The Warmth of Old Things: A Veteran's Reflection on Life, Memory, and Legacy

I am in my eighties now.
Afternoon light pours through the window, spilling gently across my study. In front of me sits a scarred wooden desk—my father's desk. He used it before he left for war, writing letters late into the night. The stains of ink and tears still remain, faint but alive.

I plan to give that desk to my son.
He may see it as just an old piece of furniture, but I know what it holds—the sound of pens scratching, the lessons of time. It was both my first classroom and my last comfort.

Across the room, the wall clock ticks slowly. Tick, tick—steady as a heartbeat. When I was young, that sound annoyed me. Now, it comforts me. It reminds me that no matter how the world changes, time continues, faithfully. When I returned from the battlefield decades ago, that same clock was still ticking. It felt like an old friend waiting quietly at the door. That day I learned something: the world never stops, but the things we love somehow learn to wait.

During the war, I carried three things with me—a lighter, a watch, and a fountain pen.
The lighter was a gift from a fellow soldier. He said, “Keep this. When the war ends, fire will mean peace again.” The lighter still works. The flame is small now, but steady—like my memories.

The watch broke once in the field. I repaired it myself. Ever since, I've called it my “friend of time.” Its hands move slowly now, but I've grown to love that. Slowness is the privilege of age.

I have never thrown things away easily. Objects, I believe, carry spirit.
The teacup my wife used every morning still sits by the window. Her fingerprints have faded, but not her warmth. When I pour tea into it, I almost hear her voice again, soft and familiar. Objects don't just hold use; they hold presence.

Lately, I've begun putting things in order.
My books will go to the local library. My photographs to my grandchildren.
My wife's teacup to my eldest granddaughter. My father's desk to my son, and the wall clock to his son.

But there's so much—too much. Each drawer I open brings a flood of memory. Every item carries a story, and I find it hard to let go. So I ask myself, “When I'm gone, what will happen to all this?”

Some of it, I hope, will be donated—to the veterans' museum, to charity foundations.
Maybe my lighter and fountain pen can stand in a glass case, not as relics of war, but as symbols of endurance, of peace hard-earned. I am not a rich man. But I believe true inheritance isn't money—it's meaning. It's the warmth inside the things we leave behind. If my family can feel that warmth, they'll understand who I was.

My grandson once asked, “Grandpa, why don’t you throw away old stuff?”
I smiled. “Because new things shine, but old things glow.”

These days, as I sort through my belongings, it feels less like cleaning and more like saying goodbye. The fountain pen, the wristwatch, the worn-out boots—all whisper back to me,
“Thank you for the life we ​​shared.”

Someday I'll leave this house.
But if these things find new hands, new homes, then maybe I won't truly disappear.
Objects may fade, but the warmth of love remains.