on memories

I have something called a memory box, which is basically a tin that I fill with little souvenirs from notable events throughout the year. For example, if I go to the movies with friends on a fun night out, I might save the ticket stub in that box. And so on.

I guess this is a little tradition that started for me on my own since I was young. It wasn't a deliberate, planned act, but just a matter of convenience. I had photos and souvenirs, I had a shoebox, voila. A memory box.

The shoe box has since gotten upgrade to a Little Women-esque chest, donated by my aunt. And now, it holds fragments of things, from stubs to polaroids to letters and handwritten short stories I've never really typed up.


It's strange how we feel each moment of our lives so keenly, so much so that in that single moment, we don't feel like we'd ever forget it. Because just think about it. What do you feel now?

Right now, I feel the smoothness of a keyboard, the lateness of the hour, the quiet hum of my refrigerator. I feel an ache in my shoulder from sitting in the same position too long, and the words that are spilling across this page. I feel and sense so many things. Truly, the body is just a bundle of nerves, because all it can do is just feel.

I don't feel like I'll forget this moment, even though my brain knows plainly that I will, or at least most of it. This is just one small moment among many similar moments of tired nights writing at my computer.

It's curious to me that this is the way it is. Because a person, at the end of the day, is just a long string of memories. Their entire being is composed of this idea, since everything that shapes them to who they are is the collection of memories that holds the entirety of their lives. And yet, we're not capable of remembering everything. We just remember in fragments, of certain days that we bother to write down and take note.

The importance of remembering isn't just recorded in textbooks or memorials. It's present in our present (sorry), and it's one that's keenly felt by anyone who has the idea to really examine themselves as a being. What do you see when you look inwards?

For me, I see snow. I see my grandmother standing, holding my hands clad in red mittens.

I see my father's back, always turned away as he drives me to my destination.

I see words swimming in front of my eyes as I struggle to stay awake in another desperate night of studying.

I see the string of lights at the local mall as I come out of the movie theater with a group of good friends, laughing and feeling content.

 I taste cold yogurt and hot rice, I hear my mother's music and the latest hit on the radio.

Within the box, I see birthday letters, strangely taken photographs, and subway cards that are gathering dust under the neglect of the LA public transportation system. The box allows me to remember some things that are really not worth remembering, like the specific dates for my antibiotics prescription, but they also show me hidden evidence of a life that has actually been lived.

I spend so much of my time doubting that my life has been significant that I'm surprised I have a boxful of scraps that assure me that I have, at least, lived for some of these seventeen year.

There are memories that you can't place in a box. But it is important to remember them, and hopefully the box becomes an aid in that.