Physical stuff, people, not coy jokes about your marbles or your cherry.
Thing #1, two boxes of my artwork and writing from age 9 through college. I don’t know why I started saving things when I started drawing, and a lot of stuff didn’t get saved, but I had two copier paper boxes full of spirals, then sketchpads. When I got to a point where I was pulling my hair out because I - Could - Not - Get - It - On - Paper and had just about decided to give up because I never would, I could sit down and start going through my old drawings and see just how much I improved, even in the course of one sketchpad.
When my parents got ready to sell the house I grew up in, my mom called us home to pitch and to save. I told her specifically “save these two boxes,” and she agreed. All stuff to be saved went into storage. All stuff to be pitched went in the dumpster. When I visited a few weeks later, and we went to the storage place, my two boxes were nowhere to be seen. Somehow, they had been tossed.
Now, I know my mother would never have done it on purpose. I know she must have gotten distracted and thought that my boxes were my brother’s old college papers that he HAD told her to get rid of. But I was broken hearted. It was really difficult not to say mean, bitter things to her, and a few did slip. I still, to this day, think about those old sketchpads and how much they meant to me. If the subject comes up, I work really hard to keep my mouth shut, but it still really, really hurts. I’d have kept those boxes until I died.
Thing #2, on my college graduation day, my mother gave me a three strand pearl necklace that had been her mother’s. I loved it. I think I only got to wear it five or six times. When I moved from Texas to California, I packed it up carefully. I’m sure I packed it with the stuff I brought in my car, and not the stuff I shipped. However, once I’d unpacked in California, I never saw it. I didn’t even realize I was missing it until it occurred to me that I should wear it for a special occasion. I have no idea what happened to it. It kills me that someone might have stolen it, or that I might have forgotten it somewhere. My father bought it for his mother-in-law when he was in Vietnam. They were the big name Japanese cultured pearls, and they must have cost a small fortune, even for a commissioned officer. Some day, if I ever have the money, I will try to replace them, but that won’t be for a long, long while.