I recently went through what I call my “nostalgia cabinet”.  It’s a wooden cabinet I’ve had most of my life.  I can’t remember the details, but ever since it entered the confines of my family’s home, it became my cabinet; a sanctuary for my intimate artifacts.  I utilized it as such from my early youth, but sometime in the latter years of high school, I abandoned it, as if such a thing were made solely for child’s play, and I no longer wished to be a child.

I dug deep through the contents of the top drawer, and the journey was a dizzying spiral into the days of yesteryear.  I met the most ancient relics of my youth, notable of which were several “Clifford the Big Red Dog” pencil tops.  I used to love Clifford, especially how his name followed with not one, but three adjectives.  (Isn’t “dog” a descriptor in this context?)

There’s no doubt a part of me that resists digging into such tombs, for fear of the torrential downpour of memories, and with it, forgotten dreams, lost hope, and perhaps regret.  I find that reflecting upon the past is always a humbling experience.

The most potent find of the excavation were the personal letters I’ve received throughout the years.  They were quite touching, abundantly imbued with love and appreciation, painting a rose-colored past.

I felt saddened by the display, wishing I’d enjoy every moment and every person even just a little bit more, wanting to reciprocate the favor that was expressed within those letters.  I regret ever ceasing communication and interaction with any and all I’ve been fortunate to know and befriend.  “The good ol’ days” beset me with a feeling of homesickness.  You can never go home again.

I came to a realization: No matter how insignificant and irrelevant you may feel at any time, you matter more than you could ever know.

I don’t know what else to say.