I never like myself as much as when I am looking through my boxes of memorabilia. People talk about their life flashing before their eyes, well I have my childhood right there in my hands. The sense memory of a time, the times we really want to remember. I get to hold onto people even if they aren't in my life anymore, by their choice or nature's choice. Lifting the lid is the backwards motion of closing my eyes and rummaging through time, my time. The bag of marbles that I won off all the boys at recess, my ballet slippers and tap shoes, my first pair of ear rings that Todd ripped out of my ear so that I had to get my ears pierced again, the gold medal from my Dorothy Hamill doll, and my first diary still locked.
The jewelry box holds a turtle pendant that used to have solid perfume in it and was one of the first presents a boy every gave me, tiny red rocks from my visit to the old Hansen Planetarium that I used to think were more precious than gold, and one of my most favorites, teeny tiny books that I made for my barbies that I bound and illustrated in color.
There are funny things like the empty Pepsi can with Michael Jackson's signature on it (this was right around the time he caught his hair on fire) and my Madonna lace gloves. Then, there is the bright red plastic Hello Kitty notebook with a note inside that says in pencil "love you forever, Stephie" that knocks the wind out of me, reminding me how impermanent it all is.
I am making my newer/later versions of memorabilia boxes. They are my bookshelves. They are my blog. They are my family. They are my friends. Whenever I open one up, I like myself a little more.