A messy box.

Papers, some folded at odd angles, topped with pieces of clay and bags of petals. 

A mess of the things I couldn’t live without.

Today was gray both in attitude and weather: gloomy.

I sat down on the floor of my room and dragged open the drawer that contains my box.

I lifted it out onto the ground, noting the way it was heavy in my hands.

The weight was comforting.

Like a hug, it felt like I was surrounded by the memories of people that love me.

In truth, my box feels like a time capsule.

It holds pictures, cards, achievements, flowers, and knickknacks from across the years.

This box is my place to get away from negativity,

To live vicariously through the mementos of my favorite memories in my life. 

I opened the lid to the box, looking inside.

Years of items looked back up at me. 

I started to dig.

2014.

The last camping trip with my old school.

My last week in Milwaukee. 

The smiling faces of happy little kids stare back at me in the photographs. 

Some blurry, some taken with harsh flash.

The black and yellow disposable camera I had taken the photo on is fresh in my mind.

I feel the joy of being a little kid. 

2017.

Red, yellow, purple, blue.

Little plastic figurines.

People-shaped with big, circular heads. 

I remember the bowling alley capsule machine I got them from.

The day I met my grandpa.

I feel the nervous excitement of a new beginning.

2019.

My great grandma’s handwriting on a Christmas card.

An ivory-colored ceramic thimble with a rose,

Her favorite flower. 

The gift I received six months after she had passed away.

I remember the feeling of walking into her house for every holiday, always met with love. 

2020. 

A scrap of notebook paper.

Words written in my own handwriting.

“You’re a special young lady.”

The last words my grandpa said to me before he passed,

Written so I would not forget.

I feel his hug, the smoky smell of his clothing. 

2023.

A clay paw print.

The jingle of dog tags as the box moves.

I remember the noise of my dog's paws on the hardwood floors.

The white line down the center of his face,

The black fur that never had time to turn gray. 

I remember my dogs’ excitement when I came home, love in a simple form.

The list goes on.

A paper dance award.

I feel the excitement of winning.

Cards from my childhood friend.

I hear her encouraging me.

The letter from my best friend before she left for college.

I feel my love for her, the sister I never had. 

I am happy.

Papers, some folded at odd angles, topped with pieces of clay and bags of petals. 

A mess of the things I couldn’t live without.