What did you lose
before you knew it was
worth keeping?

I grew up with a Russell Stover Christmas tin box in my study cabinet, hidden behind the thick books.

A 2005 vintage, Santa embossed, hinged lid. Beautiful just to look at. By the time I last saw it, it had rust on it — the kind that comes from years of waiting. Inside — scented erasers I never used. Alphabets. Fruits. Vegetables. A golf kit where the ball was an eraser too. Stones I picked up because their shape felt right. Sticks. Things I found on the ground that nobody else stopped for.

Earthly finds. Mine. Things that made sense to me, and only me.

When I left home for Bangalore at 23, the tin stayed behind. I told myself I'd get it someday. I wanted to find something worthy enough to hold these memories — something I could trust. I never found it. So the tin stayed.

A few years ago, my childhood home got sold to a builder. While my parents packed and moved, I was 1,800 kilometres away. Unable to be there. Unable to sort through what stayed and what went.

I don't have photos of what was lost. Maybe my mother showed me on a video call. Maybe she just told me on the phone — "eta ki ar lagbe?? Ki hobe... phele dicchhi." Does this still matter? No? Throwing it away then.

I didn't know it was the last time I was seeing it. You never do.

I've learned to tone down the hard memories — it's good for my mind and soul. But the absence stays. The knowing that it's gone stays.

I'm not alone in this.

You left for another city. Another country. Another life. And somewhere along the way, the things that were only yours — the things that made sense only to you — got left behind. Got thrown away. Got lost in a move.

A private life archive. Photos, words, voices. Just for you.