Essay on My Box of Memories

Essay on My Box of Memories

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Pirates! Who have not heard about them, their astonishing adventures and treasure chests packed with jewels, gold and other important objects? What would it be our impression if
we found a chest from centuries ago packed with several objects rather than gold? Would we consider them valuable? Probably not, but they could have been priceless for the owner. People bestow special value to some objects according to an experience, emotion or hidden message associated with them. I also have a chest with treasures.
In the left corner of my closet, bathed by the shadows of my clothes, lies a Sterilite™ Ultra™ storage box of dimensions: 18 1/8" length x 12 1/4" width x 7 1/2" height; a 6 dollars plastic container of such clear gray that you can easily see through it. Darker latches emerging from each side hold the snow lid as strong fists. A concentric rectangle grows out of the white cover less than half an inch in height, two from the borders and an inch from the grips, to embellish the surface that otherwise would be flat, except for the two depressions along the latches that ease the opening task. Inside, I treasure my most valuable possessions; no gold or gemstones but a recorder, a little wooden clown, a porcelain figure of a little sailor with a barrel, a crafted envelope and a small conch shell.
My family and I used to go to the beach every summer; on one of those trips, I encountered a small conch shell, so small that it could be held on my ring and pinky finger together. Despite its size, it looks like a fully developed one. From a centric point, the chocolate spiral shell is developed. As the shell moves away from the center, white bone lines separate the brownish layers. Going farther, three rows of spikes come out as chain...

... middle of paper ...

...ay her voice—and the singings of birds when the dawn appears.
Afraid of being robbed, pirates used to hide their chests in remote jungles, on the top of distant mountain, at the shore on desert islands, and so forth; yet I do not need to bury my treasure chest since it does not hold gold or precious stones but objects that would not have any value for others, except me. They transport me to places gold would not: I can go to the beach even in the coldest winter listening to my conch shell and looking at my sailor or I can go back as a third person and see myself confessing my love, and revive the same emotions. These objects are scraps of my memories, symbols that say more than 1000 words, keys which open doors into my past, pieces of me that reflect part of my personality. I am sure that more treasures will be added to my box of memories throughout my lifetime.

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