Letters from the Wasteland

Last night when I was getting into bed I got a wild hair and decided to look through some of my memory boxes. I like antiques, so all my memory boxes are old and wooden and have horrible worn out linings. One box has just pictures. Another one has trinkets from elementary school, and two others have my old horrible '90s jewelry in them. Then I found one that I had kind of forgotten about that has high school stuff in it. Things like all my ticket stubs from New York and Walt Disney World and playbills from all of Susan's plays. I had so much fun looking at that box full of stuff that I dug out my letter box. From time to time I will get it out and read all the notes my friends and I passed back and forth and letters written a long time ago. A few of the ones I really enjoyed reading again are from my dad when he was still in Kansas and we had already moved to Texas. They are all reminding me to not be mean to my sister, along with things like sending me $30 to take my mom out for Mother's Day. I was about 8 years old:) Another one was actually from me to Santa, asking if he could please leave present in my stocking for my stuffed dragon Draggie. I loved Draggie with all my heart, and apparently really wanted him to get a present all his own. So, on the back of the letter I wrote, "Santa" wrote back in huge block lettering that is clearly my mom's. It said that he would leave a bracelet for Draggie, but that maybe Draggie would let me wear it mostly. And also, be nice to my sister. Apparently I had a problem with that. Others are from my childhood friends Jacque and Stacey, on Hello Kitty paper all about the next time we would get to visit each other. Then there are the ones that I can never talk about because they are so personal and take me back to such an amazing place in my childhood that typing their content does not do them justice. Those are from friends, ex-boyfriends, and childhood crushes. I do not usually get emotional about a lot of stuff, but reading some of those letters made me cry. Not because they are sad or about bad times, but because they represent a time that is so extremely precious to me, and I am so lucky to have it written down on paper that I was smart enough to keep. How in the world did I become a museum person?!?! I bet no one saw that one coming...