I call it my life box, the old plastic storage thing I keep under my bed. But, more accurately, it’s the-person-I-used-to-be box. Who I was when I was a child. When I was in high school. When I was a teacher. When I was a new bride.
It’s packed full of old greeting cards and book reports and poems I used to write and photos of people I used to know. Notes from the fourth-graders I taught. The guest list from my wedding.