When I was seven, I combined all of my most precious baseball cards into one glorious collection . With their pristine gloss and unbent corners, I carefully placed them in the thick-plastic holders, placed these in a box with a cheap, red, combination lock adorning the front. I placed this under my bed. every once and awhile, I'd unlock the box (36, 10, 26) and sit in the corner, looking at the cards. as I recount our shared history, the young version of myself in my childhood room, pouring my adoration over these scraps of paper and plastic bears a lot of similarity to my current situation. I guess I just don't know what to do with her -- a lock box seems too harsh of a place for such beautiful memories, but i've never been very good at biding my time.
and she's never been one for stability.
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