It was tiny, six-sided and held an itty-bitty mirror and a round place for a wee powder puff. I was eight years old. I didn’t know that the top was inlaid woods. I just knew it was pretty and tiny and I loved it.

It was a summer day when I was eight and my mother and father took us to an outdoor antiques fair. I don’t remember my siblings being there, probably because I was busy examining a table of jewelry, ephemera, and other small old things. As I picked up and perused the offerings on the table, under the sharp eye of the proprietor, my eyes landed on the little box with the colorful flower basket decoration. I picked it up, handling it carefully and waiting for my mother’s usual scold, “Don’t touch anything!” But she was on down the line of tables and didn’t see what I was doing. I turned it over. It felt weighty in my palm. I could hear a slight rattle from inside it. There was a teeny latch on the front and I lifted it to open the lid. Inside the top of the lid was a little mirror. The bottom held a metal circular disc, that fell out into my palm. I panicked for a moment thinking I had broken it, but gave a sigh of relief when I was able to place it back in. It sat on the inner rim, allowing a space underneath that showed the remnants of some fine pink dust.

“Do you know what that is?” My father asked, startling me. “That’s a lady’s compact. She would keep it in her purse and use it to powder her nose. See that dust? That’s where the powder went. And that metal piece on top? That would have held a tiny little powder puff.” He held the compact and it looked even smaller in his large palm. “Can I have it?” I asked. “Well, it’s really old and not something to play with,” he said. In the end, he gave me the money and I paid the proprietor and left with my treasure.

I still have the compact. I still marvel at its dainty beauty and I still imagine the girl who it originally belonged to. I see it as a talisman. It was the first spark of a love of old things I still have 59 years later. It was the first old thing I ever yearned for. The first old object I loved.

Old objects hold mysteries. They are magical with their untold stories. They allow us to create the story around them or to match them to a story that’s all our own. Now, when I pick up that compact, I remember that day. I remember my father and his love of old things. I remember his patience in revealing the secret of what that six-sided box with the basket of flowers was. His explanation brought it to life for me. His remark that it was old and not a play thing instilled a reverence in me that has kept that compact safe from harm through my childhood, adolescence, adulthood. Through countless moves and the plundering fingers of my inquisitive children.

Here’s what the compact taught me. Wander through the shops. Look at the old things, really look. Let your eye land on something. Pick it up, turn it over. Get lost in its story. Let even the smallest old thing whisper in your ear that it’s been cherished by others, that it’s been patiently waiting, that it’s still here. For you.