Boxed Memories
Tucked away in almost every home, somewhere in an attic, garage, or under-stair closet, lies a box of belongings from long ago. Containing childhood crafts, photos and family heirlooms, these boxes brim with forgotten things as they lie covered in dust, untouched and unthrown.
Why do we hold on to these items? Packed up to never unpack or put on display?
I call mine my “special boxes.” Stacked privately in the corner of my bedroom, these memory or keepsake boxes are not made of typical cardboard. Each one is unique and beautiful in its own way; a representation of the decades’ worth of stories they hold inside.
I began filling these boxes as a memory aide to help me better remember significant moments, mostly in anticipation of having a daughter one day. I wished for her to know the person I was before we met. Holding a token of my past in our hands would help me relate to her, maybe even bring us closer together.
The first box is dedicated to my teen years. A teal treasure-like box with an imprint of Paris’ Eiffel Tower: a place I aspired to visit. Its latch barely holds shut, bursting with recollections.
Fallen to the bottom of the box are small items: an unwrapped Starburst from my first date, concert tickets and worn-out friendship bracelets. I also held on to products I thought might be worth something one day like a Pez candy dispenser.
Other relics seem to disintegrate right in my hand: papers hanging by the thinning creases of their folds, and a dried flower whose petals crumbled to powder. Maybe this is how it's supposed to be. Just like nature, some memories are meant to fade away for new ones to blossom.
Notes, letters and other pieces of writing make up most of my boxes’ contents: every poem to and from my first boyfriend, countless sheets of paper on which I poured all the sadness and frustrations of a growing girl, odes of gratitude to my mentors, birthday cards from grandparents in a handwriting I will never see fresh again, and letters addressed to my future self, describing my hopes and dreams. I have managed to accomplish some of the goals I set for myself; there are others I have yet to pursue.
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Keepsake boxes were founded on love. Originally made as small personalized wooden containers, Queen Victoria popularized them during the late 1800s to store sentimental objects. She also sent tins of chocolates to soldiers during the Second Boer War, who then reused the boxes for their own keepsakes, to be delivered to their families with or without their own safe return.
Memory boxes continue to be a tradition among newlyweds starting a life together and families honouring the memories of loved ones they’ve lost. Many people collect memory boxes not as an inability to move forward, but as a reminder of the difficult lessons learnt and of their strength during times of heartbreak. They also hold successes, shared happiness, and moments we thought were so bad only to realize how comical they now are as we experience more of life’s complexities.
For my twenties, I chose a more mature white and beige wicker box. At only 26, that box is already full. I’ve already begun filling an expansion box, wrapped in a golden-coloured world map. Some items draw a blank, while others, annotated with written details, flood my mind with memories.
An overflow of useless and insignificant objects that I must have saved for some sentimental reason. Was I holding on to too much, trying to escape the inevitability of aging? What would happen if I threw it all away? Boxless and committed to the present.
Perhaps this is why history fascinates us, and why we hold on to mementos, repost Facebook memories, and celebrate anniversaries.
Some say the keepsake box allows a memory to be isolated from its surroundings in a portable encasing, beyond geography and time. When everything changes, the box and its contents do not. The tangible connection to the past becomes an emotional time machine of nostalgia.
These souvenirs remind us of who we are, because who we once were is how we came to be. They’re a timeline of our life’s journey.
TEXT BY ALESSIA PROIETTI