Through the front door of the ramshackle house with weeds growing up to the crooked shutters, up the creaky, front staircase, and past the peeling, yellow paint, sat a bookshelf. Sitting on the top shelf, almost touching the slanted ceiling, was a plain, wooden box with rusted metal hinges left open as if the contents inside were yearning to be admired. In order for that to happen, however, even the tallest man would have to stand on the tips of his toes and crane his neck to examine the treasures lying within the discretely placed box. Be that as it may, from a distance, even the shortest boy could see two small loops of shiny ribbon just visible over the edge of the box.

Upon closer examination, perhaps by using a step stool and reaching up to remove the box from the shelf, the marveler would find that the ribbon belonged to a corsage whose flowers had not seen life in an eternity. The original pigments of the flowers were unknown, for they were now a dead, greenish-brown hue. Pieces of the delicate plant crumpled at the slightest touch leaving more scented bits on the floor than were left on the corsage. The brilliant, silver ribbon attaching the blossoms to the band, however, still held strong. The bow aired perfection as the two loops and two tails were symmetric with each other. It felt rough to the touch because there was coarse, silver glitter in the center groove of the ribbon. Ornate as the ribbon was, it did its job well, securing the crippled flowers to the white, elastic band. The one who examines the corsage could easily imagine what it once looked like fresh and new and special enough to be kept in the first place. Perhaps the petals were once a soft, baby pink or a brilliant magenta color. Each flower sat regally next to each other, in a slightly curved arc, on the girl’s delicate wrist. The smell of fresh carnations or orchids pleased anyone’s nose that came within reach of the scent-filled air. With the flowers in full bloom, the accessory would look almost tacky, calling the attention of anyone who caught the glint of silver glitter out of the corner of his or her eye just as it did to the one who retrieved the box from the top of the bookshelf.

Also residing in the box, hidden underneath the corsage, was a seashell that was bigger than a silver dollar, but small enough to fit in the palm of one’s hand. The shell had multicolored flecks of paint as if it once was a canvas for alluring artwork. One could still make out the distinction between the shore and the sea and what looked to be a barber’s pole. After some reasoning, however, the admirer could infer that the shell once housed a lighthouse to guide a ship the size of a baby’s nail back to shore. Holding the shell was like stroking a metal spoon, for it was smooth and cool to the touch. The smell of the shore lingered with the shell, and although it was aged, grains of sand were still stuck in the grooves along the top. Instinctually, the shell was placed against the ear, and the sounds of the ocean were faintly heard like the sounds of chirping insects outside one’s bedroom on a summer’s night. It was no surprise that this item was special enough to be kept all this time, for it was so fragile, yet strong enough to maintain a size big enough to showcase appropriate scenery, and even after the manmade acrylics faded, the shell maintained its integrity and dignity, providing the essence of the sea to anyone who pleased.

Now visible in the back corner of the box was an old, yellowed newspaper clipping that felt stiff between the fingers and smelled like a cat’s litter box. It featured a brawny man in the top, right corner of the page. He looked like an ant compared to the enormous house behind him. The look on his face exuded pride as his eyes lit up like jack o’ lanterns and his hands rested prominently behind his back as if to say “I spent long, hard years building this house and I’m damn proud of it, too”. His collared shirt, like a polished silver fork on a plastic card table, was tucked into his wrinkled shorts and hung around his muscles in all the wrong ways. It was unsettling, as the newspaper rustled between the reader’s anxious fingers, thinking about how long ago this man had lived and the state that beautiful, new house was in today. The paper was dated August 17, 1902 and the title, like a proud parent praising his or her child’s achievements, stated Uncle Carl’s success in building a home for his family. Words like hard work, dedication, family, love, and passion stuck out of the article and showed how inspirational the story was. Any descendent of Uncle Carl to read this article would be dumbfounded at how much the comfortable state of the family now was due to Uncle Carl’s hard work back in 1902. Uncle Carl would be equally dumbfounded at the horrid state the house was in today with only a few memories scattered about the floor or locked away in forgotten boxes.

Rolled up like a snake and stuck between the floor and back wall of the box was a piece of black and cream colored cloth. Most spots were soft, yet textured like sandpaper, as if the individual grains of fabric were protruding slightly from one another, and the rest of the spots were stiff like it had been drenched in starch. Those rough spots, probably a result of decades old mucus and tears, molded the cloth in its rolled up form, so it had to be pried open to reveal its beautiful design. The black swirls on the aged, cream background were like the cursive L’s and E’s of a Victorian gentleman. Such intricate loops were on each of the four corners of the handkerchief, while a simple, pink flower was positioned in the center with delicate, green leaves between each petal. The wrinkles in the fabric were so aesthetic it seemed as though there was a deliberate pattern to them. Just like the rest of the items in the box, the handkerchief brought bittersweet memories. One could imagine the original owner using the decorative cloth to wipe a young child’s nose, suppress an oncoming sneeze, or dry his or her tears when they were falling out of control. When it was new, the hanky probably spent much time in a woman’s pocketbook or the front pocket of a man’s shirt. As it aged and collected tears it probably spent more and more time crumpled in the bottom of a bedside table drawer until it was nearly forgotten, only to be remembered on those horrible nights when the tears would not stop. The older the handkerchief got, the more practical value it lost, for it was too stiff and stinky to be put anywhere near one’s face. The longer the handkerchief existed, however, the more sentimental value it gained, offering the comfort of one’s ancestors when no other comfort would do.

One by one, the handkerchief, the newspaper clipping, the shell, and the flower were placed back into the box. The stiff hinges creaked like old bones as the lid was carefully shut. The small, metal clasp on the front of the box was locked, and the memories were sealed away once again. A gentle hand rubbed away the dust from the top and bottom of the rosewood box. Instead of being hidden away again on the top of the highest bookshelf, it was placed inside another box, this one large and cardboard and brown. The box of memories now rested between a handmade quilt, a bible with a ripped spine, and several big, black photo albums. The larger box was sealed up with packaging tape and carried down the creaky, wooden stairs, past the peeling yellow paint, and out the front door of the place it called home for so many years.