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Welcome to the Gift Shop

A Temporary Space for Temporary Things

Kaitlin Roberts

27 Sep 2024 — 5 min read

This is a gift shop full of things you don’t need: Stickers, tote bags, temporary tattoos, coasters. The kind of stuff you find at the end of a museum after you’ve seen the real art and the amateur art.

If you haven’t seen my exhibition, It’s Ok to Let Go, you really should. Don’t be one of those people who just skips ahead to the merch and snatches up all the t-shirts and ornaments (looking at you, mom and Addison). Go back. Take it all in. I’ll wait.

Alright, now let’s get back to why we’re here. Not just here in this gift shop, but here in this very moment. The one you’re in right now, reading my words. This moment won’t last forever. In fact, it’s already gone. Vanished. You didn’t even get to say goodbye. And you probably aren’t really missing it that much. It wasn’t meant to last.

But there are things in our lives that we do expect to last. Dream jobs, long-term relationships, forever homes, even our sense of self. And even though we all know that nothing lasts forever, when it comes to the big stuff we don’t like to admit it might be temporary. Because signing up for something temporary feels kinda cheap, like you’re putting late nights and fresh paint into what’s already doomed, or at least filed under emotional cleanup. A temporary situation often seems like it can’t lead anywhere good.

One of my favorite stories is Jhumpa Lahiri’s “A Temporary Matter.” It’s about a couple who, during a series of power outages, sit together night after night. In this cocoon of darkness, they open up in ways they haven’t in years, sharing truths in the dark that they’ve never been able to tell each other. When the lights come on, the spell is broken, but those nighttime conversations set the relationship on a new course. The power outage was just a temporary matter, but it also changed everything.

This week, I’ve been thinking about the power of temporary situations because my sister, who’s 24, is on a road trip. She’s doing it alone, just her, a mini-van with a mattress in the back and glow-stars on the ceiling. Before she left, my family was worried. I told them that she would be fine, but once she actually got on the road, I started worrying, too. What if her car broke down? What if she met a serial killer? What if she got really lonely? I told myself this was about my concern for her, but of course it was also about me. I’ve never done what she’s doing. I’ve never slept in the back of my car or spent weeks navigating mountain roads. This trip – even though it’s just temporary – is something I don’t know anything about, and so it scares me.

But even though I’m not on the trip, I’ve been along for the ride. My sister and I talk on the phone most days, and from across the ocean in Germany I can hear the sounds of her travels in the background. I hear her car backing out of her campsite, the crunchy speakers at a grocery store. She tells me about the glow stars that fell on her as she was sleeping, how she’s started to love the cold nights. I hear her ordering a reuben, eggs benedict, cups of coffee at diners where the waitresses call her hon. I hear her talk to park rangers, who tell her there’s plenty of spots at the campsite. There’s joy and confidence in her voice as she tells one she’s living her childhood dream, re-reading the Twilight box-set, watching sunsets and camping near Forks.

These snippets of life are so tiny, so forgettable, like a glow star that falls between the car seats, never to be seen again. But there’s also something magic in what’s temporary, which I’ve only recently started to appreciate. For so long, I valued permanence (and I wasn’t even that good at maintaining it!). I thought that only things built to last forever were worth building. And while there is beauty in stability, I’m also starting to believe that fleeting moments offer just as much value. Glow stars, cold nights, greasy spoon sandwiches, passing conversations with other travelers – these small moments can reveal who we are, sometimes before we even know it.

Which brings me back to the gift shop. A couple months ago, I was an anti-trinket person and now here I am, selling my wares – which, maybe you’re eager to see. Maybe you’re someone who can’t leave a gift shop without getting something, or maybe, you’re the type who feels superior for not needing any knick-knacks.

I used to think you had to choose a side – trinket hoarder or trinket dismisser – but now I think maybe both approaches are flawed. Holding on tightly or rejecting something completely are both forms of control. And like I keep saying (mostly to myself), it’s ok to let go. You might like it, and if you don’t, it’s just temporary.

So have a look around. Buy something, or don’t. Consider treating this gift shop as a kind of experiment. Go outside who you think you are and see what it’s like out there.

Whatever you decide, thanks for visiting. Hope you come back soon.