A good friend and hero of mine gave me his watch. It was a simple black and white analog timepiece, and the wrist band was just a red and black braided bracelet that he had made out of string. I wore that watch long after the last time I saw him, waving goodbye from a rusting rattletrap of a bus in the middle of nowhere, Paraguay. I lost the watch a couple of years later, and was upset about it for some time.
I took several beatings for Roger Staubach and the Dallas Cowboys in the 70's. We lived near Pittsburgh, and in spite of two Super Bowl losses during our time in Steelers country, I wore my Dallas gear to school on the days after both. I lost some blood, a little skin, and had there been any friends or pride for me to lose, I probably would have lost them as well.
When I was sixteen, I bought a beautiful muzzle-loader from a trader at a mountain man rendezvous. Much like the gun Daniel Day-Lewis carried in "The Last of the Mohicans," there were six extra inches on her barrel, and her wood was naturally patterned to attract the eye. She shot straight, stood tall, and I loved her as much as I had ever loved anything. Every time I slid her out of her long, black, cloth cover, men would stop and stare as if I were peeling a lacy thigh-high off the leg of a sexy starlet. Upon hearing her roar, some would even dare to ask how much money I would take for her. "There isn't enough money in circulation," I would reply with a grin. Years later I lost her in the move from Seattle to New Hampshire, and I don't think I even have a decent photo of her. I still sit and think about that gun from time to time, and my wife can usually tell when I do, because my mood shifts to the left of happy.
I often think about these and other favorite items that I have loved and lost over the years, and wish that I still had them. But I wonder if they would be priceless in my hands, just as they are in my memories.
Well, maybe the gun. Sitting next to me on the seat of that Land Cruiser.