To Me, Dearest, Darling, Dead

“People’s memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive.” 

- Haruki Murakami, After Dark

Whenever my friends enter my room, they always ask about the pink rectangular box propped atop my desk. It is stained, worn down, and creasing around the edges, its age evident in its appearance. “This is my life since I was in fifth grade,” I find myself responding every time, with a smile spread across my face. I gently pick it up and sit on the bed, inviting my friends to do the same. 

As I lift the box’s cover, it is as if I am ten years old again. A rush of emotions and sudden wash of nostalgia prove that memories are not static; they flow overtime and come back to you at the randomest moments. I run my hands over my numerous keepsakes, reminiscing the fleeting happenstances that I took for granted: photobooth strips, concert and amusement park tickets, receipts from meals with friends, and ID lanyards from events I organized. This, to me, is heritage.

All of this had started when my best friend told me a story of how she had kept a shoebox of letters from her loved ones inside her closet. The idea intrigued me, and I decided to do the same—except, this time, I did not just want to keep birthday cards, retreat palancas, and random post-it notes. I wanted mine to mimic a time capsule, serving as a lasting reminder of how I want to be remembered for all of time.

Art by Andrew Fernandez

Perhaps one of my most favorite keepsakes are the photobooth strips from my eighteenth birthday. Though not much time has elapsed since it happened, the genuine happiness I felt in that point of time is something I would forever want burned at the back of my mind. It is rare that you feel so present in certain moments that it feels so wrong to even take out your phone and snap a live photo. However, at times when I simply do not want to take fleeting instances for granted, there will always be something to remind me of who exactly made me smile the biggest, laugh the hardest, and dance the silliest. The four-grid vertical photo strip, albeit of black and white hues, paint the perfect picture of the people whom I value in my life the most.

As my eyes run over the colorful lanyards I have collected throughout the different events I have organized, I am once again reminded of a passion I once pursued, but have chosen to distance myself with. Looking back at the past does not necessarily entail focusing on things that made your spark even brighter; it also looks at moments that once dimmed it, leaving traces of resentment and I’ll-never-do-it-agains. For the majority of my high school years, I would participate in the student council’s events and man numerous initiatives across different target audiences. Sure, it gave me a sense of fulfillment—these experiences taught me that my heart belonged to service. However, it also reminded me of my capacity and limit: as much as I want to wear my heart on my sleeve, there are times when it will only experience hurting. Yet, as the famous adage, “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” posits, I will always look back at it fondly.

More than anything, though, I will always learn to treasure handwritten letters the most. Though it will never compare to the sincerity of genuine friendship, nothing is more beautiful than sharing your appreciation through the written word. I have long lingered in the gaps between the lines my friends have scribbled, camped in the gaps around a large text block’s margins, and stayed in the words they have underlined from one point to another. With words of affirmation finding itself at the top of my list of love languages, it is a fulfilling sensation to know that your own friends think of you and cherish the experiences you have shared with them. Seeing myself from another point of view fuels my mantra to give back the love I continuously receive on the daily, whether it be through the smallest or grandest of actions.

I ultimately keep and continue collecting keepsakes for my memory box to remember that change is the only constant thing in my life. Different versions of myself have chosen to put items in there knowing they will hold significance in the future, and while I would have not the same for certain things at present, sentimental value still oozes from it. 

Who would have thought that I would have the weirdest-looking birthday card of Mike Wazowski? That would be me from the pandemic who was obsessed with the Monsters Inc. franchise, coping with the immense struggle that came alongside the shock of self isolation.

Who would have thought that I would have a collection of my favorite medals, knowing full well that they could have just been hung up on the wall? That would be me from Junior High School who took pride in her academic achievements, yet wanted to honor her awards to all her mentors that helped in the formation of her values.

Who would have thought that I would have a random piece of paper, keeping tabs of all the UAAP games that I have attended and their respective scores? That would be me from her earlier childhood, convinced that she was going to be like Serena Williams one day. I continue to keep this dream alive, albeit in the smallest of ways. 

Who would have thought that I would keep the letter stuck on the cover of my shoebox? That would be me from ninth grade, naively thinking that she would never grow out her best friendships. Nevertheless, while we no longer talk, she still holds immense value in my life.

Who would have thought that I would keep my name tag from my retreat back in Senior High School? That would be me from twelfth grade, who believed that the retreat was a useless yet mandatory practice for all Ateneans. Yet, little did she know that it would introduce her to her closest friends at present time.

And, finally, who would have thought that I would keep all the letters I have received from my family members? That would be my inner child healing herself bit by bit after experiencing a childhood that epitomizes tough love—that, after all that she has been through, she is deserving of gentleness.

Safe to say, I am a memory junkie, and my biggest sin is the act of forgetting. I rue the day that even the littlest of memories fade from the back of my mind and disappear into broken, desaturated figments of what and how it used to be. The pink, orange, and yellow sunsets I have borne witness to lose their color. The names of people I used to hug in the hallways remain at the tip of my tongue. The places I once frequented now comprise the roughest of outlines at the back of my head. I utter and write down all of my favorite moments as if it were a prayer, vowing for time immemorial to live for it and never forget.

Yet, with the fleeting nature of memory and the excruciating fear of forgetting the tiniest details of all the things that I have loved, why choose to stay? Why choose to linger? People usually choose to forget about the past for it holds the most negative, hurtful memorie. Yet, while I know all too well that the ink I treasure would soon fade away from all the paper and cardstock, I need to be reminded and reaffirmed of who I am. To do that, I trace it all back to the pieces that make me feel like my whole self—my mementos.

While others may completely render the act of keeping mementos absolutely meaningless, I digress and perceive it as a process of completing a puzzle. All of the things that have made me into who I am today are mere pieces that illustrate not only the surface level of my personality. With all the trinkets, stickers, photos, and pins I continue to collect and keep, I bare a piece of my soul for the world to piece together. As I trace each piece’s masterfully curated and carved edge, strength overpowers pain; growth prevails over ingenuousness. I feel empowered knowing what I am here for—and, as importantly, who and what I live and love for.  

After all, more than cheating the nature of memory’s inevitable impermanence, heritage reminds you of your purpose. I continue to breathe life because of all the people and places that I have loved. I am struck with the innate fear of ever forgetting, for it implies losing sight of who I am and who I want to be. My memories ground me back to reality and, with its tangible presence, a voice echoes at the back of my mind: love exists because I exist, and it will come back to me tenfold. 

This is why, “Akin na ‘yan, I’ll keep it in my memory box,” would probably be the biggest compliment I can give. Not only does it help me immortalize the fleeting moments I keep close to my chest, but also symbolize that the mementos are now an irrevocable piece of my soul. Try as I might to declutter and throw out what others consider to be mere trash or pieces of paper, blatant attempts to do just that is a disservice to my very identity. 

And when time calls and says it is time to let go, I embrace myself knowing that it is for the better. However, this is not to say that I leave that version of myself in the shadows; as blurred and covered as it is by the looming peripheries, I will constantly keep her at the back of my mind. Time may move, but she taught me valuable lessons that I will carry for the rest of my lifetime.

And so, I keep my memory box clutched close to my chest and know that I will continue to bring it with me wherever I go. A number of years may continue to pass, yet I know all too well that my keepsakes will keep piling to the point of over pouring—perhaps, even to the extent that I might as well find another memory box to keep my other items in. Yet, this just goes to show that I have lived a life worth living because I continue to love amidst warnings of transience and heartache. 

I know that, throughout time, I may be the punchline for being a sucker for nostalgia. The ink of my concert tickets will fade into the white of my cardstock, the color of my postcards will soon desaturate into unintelligible figures, and the flowers I have made remarkable efforts to dry may soon crumble from its fragility. Yet, I will constantly reaffirm that love persists even the impermanence of memory. 

Until then, my memory box will remain atop my desk. Though stained, worn down, and rough around the edges, I will continue to share a piece of myself with the people I love the most. Change may be constant, but the conscious act of letting love in is something I never want to let go of. This is the mark that I want to leave in the world and ultimately, this is my heritage. Nothing will ever change that.