During my aforementioned flood situation, through having my stuff hauled away, helping to haul away the possessions of others, and conversing with people doing the same, one thing kept popping up: how simultaneously personal yet trivial all of this stuff was.

I mean, no one should ever have to go through someone else’s bathroom, throwing away flooded and muddied toothbrushes and hair products. These tiny things, the everyday minutia, are so personal, we don’t even think about them. We think no one will ever see our sock drawers or cleaning products, but the items we have—and the way we keep them—actually add up to a pretty solid picture of the human who owns them.

For instance, I’m a wee bit, um, neurotic about organization, and one look at my sock drawer would tell anyone that in less than a second. What kind of toothbrush do you use? Are you a many-fancy-and-specific-hygiene-products type of person or a one-bottle-fits-all type?

The thing is, there are so many little knicknacks that we all have but never think about—and certainly never intend for anyone to see. Then there are other trinkets that appear to others to be a simple stuffed animal, a cheap plastic ring, an old keyring. Yet they meant the world to someone because of where they came from.

Sure, most of what we own is meaningless junk, some of it more personal than others. But each object carries with it an entire story.

Think of one object that is your own bit of tangible synecdoche and tell us about it—poetically, of course.