I’ve always been a pack rat. Not a hoarder of things, but of memories. Photos, cards, things people make me. I save all of it. Some of these items sit on my desk at work. Others are contained in a couple of boxes in a downstairs room in my house. A few are stored in a different place. A safe place. A place where not even disaster can touch it. There’s a fireproof safe in my closet. It contains some things my wife gave me while we were dating, and there are some important legal documents in there, also. But those aren’t the reasons I bought it.
I bought it for the things given to me, made for me, and written for me by Sonja Jane Larson. I have letters, cards, notes passed in church (we all were teenagers once, right?), a sheet of paper with something she drew for me on both sides, a bandana she gave to me right before I moved. She wrapped it around my wrist and said, “Keep this to remember me.”
I remember you.
I keep all of these things in the fireproof safe. They are among my most prized and priceless possessions. When letters are all of you have left of someone you loved, they become more valuable than gold.