Irreplaceable

The first iPod I bought (which was, as it happens, the first iPod) cost (I think) $400. (Or it might have been $500 — I don't remember if I bought the larger model.) When my commuting days ended (and life as a stay-at-home parent began), my wife started using it. Several years later, I bought her an iPod Nano; and in time, I inherited that.

By the time it came my way, it had been scratched up a bit — that model was particularly, irritatingly prone to scratches — and that vexed me, enough that I tried a few different methods of polishing it to remove (or at least reduce) the obvious wear. But nothing ever worked. For a while, I used a case to try to disguise it, but that was more trouble than it was worth, somehow.

I've used this iPod almost every day for as long as I can remember — listening to podcasts, sharing music with my six-year-old, or (when he was younger) or playing something quiet to encourage him to drift off to sleep during a long drive home from wherever we were. I've thought of replacing it, but by now it has far too much history. For me, it represents all those places, all those times.

It fits in my pocket, at times almost unnoticed. Often, these days, with my iPhone (which does have a case), though occasionally with keys, or loose change. It's been dropped once or twice (or more). It creaks a bit if you press hard, the silver paint is wearing off of the "Hold" switch, and it's more scratched up than it ever was. At times, it seems as though it's about to fall apart. But I've given in and learned to embrace the signs of wear. Like the yellowed pages and worn binding of a book, I've come to see them as the sign of an object that has been thoroughly used and appreciated. Even loved.