Being a hopeless romantic and one who enjoys the roundabout of nostalgia, it doesn’t take much prodding for me to point my compass down memory lane.

Because my odometer continues to spin like a hamster wheel, my check engine light of amnesia illuminates now, more than ever. When my dash begins to flicker, I find myself rummaging through an old shoebox from my youth chock full of warm fuzzies and a mound of evidence that proves me guilty of conspiracy to commit a life well lived in the third degree.

This ol’ Timberland shoebox, which once harbored leather boots that have long since decomposed in some landfill, now harbors memories only seen from my rear view mirror. This treasure trove contains letters, cards, and notes of encouragement penned of me as if I were the dashing hero who saved the planet. Most of those I didn’t deserve.

Love letters from my steady, now betrothed bride, Dear John letters from others who knew no better, and thank you letters for time well spent spill over the gunnel of this cardboard Love Boat. There are photos of best friends, in the least mature of times, born from disposable cameras and developed at the K-Mart one hour photo lab. There may even be a Polaroid or two lurking about.

…and thank you letters for time well spent spill over the gunnel of this cardboard Love Boat.

Ribbons, accolades, report cards, and trinkets of endearment now lie dormant waiting to be mined from the holder’s abyss. It brings me comfort knowing these few small pieces of my past are being preserved for all those who don’t care. I’ll probably be remembered as a hoarder of trivial sentimentalism and I’m ok with that.

The shadows of grey that now blanket my memory of days gone by are forever there but a bit harder to recall. This cauldron of personal treasures is less a casket of dying nostalgia but more a vessel of tribute to those I love and who’ve loved me, even when I was the most unlovable.