I hadn’t noticed the box in a while, but for some reason it caught my eye. Small and inconspicuous, it blended in with the other small, dusty objects on top of my dresser. I knew exactly what it was, and exactly what was in it, but for some reason I felt compelled to vault myself across the bed and grab the musty smelling little box from its hiding place. It was an old jewelry box, or something of that sort, and it was decorated with old magazine clipping now faded and flaking away in some pieces. The edges bulged, and the beleaguered latch struggled to keep it shut. I opened it, and it expelled a little puff of dust. Inside-

It’s autumn, and I’m five years old. I spend much of the time roaming the corridor in between two buildings of our apartment complex, inventing elaborate stories in my head and acting out great adventures. The other children view me with distaste, and for them I hold a deep suspicion. My word is a microcosm of fantasy and intrigue, and I see mystery behind every corner. The box appears at my doorstep on a brisk day, sitting right there on a bed of dry brown leaves like some kind of fairy gift. I take it inside and hide in under my bed, my own private mystery.

It’s winter, and I’m seven years old. I don’t have many friends, so I spend whatever time I can reading fantasy novels. More than anything I love going to the public library, asking the librarians for recommendations and spending hours sitting in the aisles and reading books that seem too exciting to wait to start. I leave every time with a stack of books that can reach to my knees, which I read all at once instead of waiting to finish one. One day, my mother calls me into the kitchen and tells me that a woman who used to take care of me has died. She tells me that drugs killed her, because my mother thinks children should be exposed to the real world. The woman who died was named Lisa, and her boyfriend gave me a necklace to remember her by. It feels too heavy to wear for someone as young as I know I am, so I stash it away in the box. It waits for me to be old enough.
It’s spring, and I’m in love for the first time, or at least that’s what I think. I’m 13. I spend the night at her house on weeknight because my parents don’t care, and we watch old cartoons while doing our homework. She lets me borrow her clothes, and it makes the whole day feel special. She draws me little doodles of us as cartoon characters, and I put them in the box because it can hold the weight of all of these important new emotions. She makes me a daisy chain and I keep it till it is beyond dead and dry, put it in the box so its fragile petals won’t fall away. Later, when she tells me that she might not want to be my friend any more, the tears I cry seem like the heaviest thing in the world.

It’s summer, and I’m 16, and someone loves me back. The box is full to bursting now, gifts and messages and memories. I try to only put special things in it, but everything seems so special. So many new moments that I have to stop and try to remember each one of them, savor it under my tongue. Oh god, I think. I’m already so full, full to bursting. How can I live an entire life of new?

The box made a soft sound as I shut it. I’d come across an odd looking little metal tin yesterday, empty and waiting. It sits on my bedside table, waiting for its first item. Never full enough, I guess.