A worn out pencil box. Second-life living after lead and paste and pink pearl. I don’t remember where I kept it hidden. That memory is lost, like so many others. I am just thankful that I recalled the memory of the pencil box at all.
Like pirate treasure, it held my meaningful things. Scraps of Christmas wrapping paper. A thread from an outgrown coat. Tiny matchstick bird bones. A tooth of mine. Some dried up pomegranate seeds. A sticky spit out and wrapped back up in its original cellophane piece of candy, given to me by my beloved uncle. Nothing of any value. Nothing that made much sense to save. Except to me. In a heaven and earth kind of way. Even if I didn’t quite understand why.
I am not that long ago talking to my best friend, sobbing into my phone. She is waiting patiently for me to get to the point of composure, so that I might try to explain this place of hurting where I find myself. She is waiting to tell me what I already know, what I was already coming to know when I was little, even if I didn’t quite understand why.
Those meaningful things.
Earth and heaven pieces of yourself that define you, ground you, make you shine, make you whole. Pieces of yourself that you cannot ever lose. No matter what changes roll by in the scenery of your life.
Crosses and skulls.
They are mine. They are mine.