Browse Memories

An antique pocket watch — the one I found at an estate sale and carried for 20 years, lost in a burglary.

A collection of fridge magnets from every city — the map of our travels, lost in a house fire.

A vintage postcard from the Eiffel Tower — the one Grandpa sent Grandma in 1952, lost in a flood.

A collection of keychains from every place we visited — 20 years of travel, lost in a move.

A perfect conch shell — the one we found on our last family vacation, lost in a move.

A coin collection — 50 years of coins from every country, stolen in a burglary.

A snow globe from our honeymoon — the one with the tiny waterfall inside, shattered in a move.

A stamp album — the collection Dad built over 40 years, lost in a house fire.

A wooden music box that played 'Clair de Lune' — Grandma's, then mine, lost in a flood.

A Zoomer robot dog — the interactive pup that responded to voice commands, lost in a garage sale.

A golden trophy — the one we won the year we went undefeated, lost in a move.

A Sphero robot ball — the app-enabled robot my kids drove around the house, lost in a move.

A gray Furby named Gizmo — the annoying, beloved companion of my childhood, lost in a move.

An Anki Vector robot — the desk companion that recognized me and told jokes, lost in a move.

A Tamagotchi Connection V4 — the one I traded my best Pokemon card for, lost at school.

A save file with a level 100 Charizard — the team I spent 200 hours building, lost to a dead battery.

A Cozmo robot — the little robot with personality that played games with my kids, lost in a move.

A Pleo baby dinosaur robot — the one that responded to my voice, lost in a divorce.

A Sony AIBO robot dog named Rusty — the robotic companion that learned my routines, lost in a house fire.

A Robosapien robot — the one I taught to do a dance, lost in a move.

A Webkinz Golden Retriever named Buddy — my first virtual pet with a real plush, lost in a flood.

A Nintendogs Shiba Inu named Kiko — the virtual dog I cared for daily for two years, lost with the console.

A Neopets account with a Faerie Kau named Starlight — ten years of daily care, lost to a hacked email.

A Sims 2 save file with a family I played for five generations, lost to a hard drive crash.

A Roomba robot vacuum named Biscuit — the family robot that cleaned the house for five years, lost in a move.

A Digimon virtual pet — the one I trained from egg to Mega level, lost in a move.

A bundle of letters tied with ribbon — the ones Grandpa sent Grandma during the war, lost in a flood.

A Tamagotchi — the virtual pet I kept alive for three years, lost on a bus.

A longboard surfboard — the one I rode every morning for a year, stolen from the beach.

A wooden recipe box with handwritten cards — Grandma's recipes, lost in a house fire.

A wooden hockey stick — the one we used on the frozen pond every winter, broken and lost.

A leather photo album — the one with every family photo from 1920 to 1990, lost in a move.

A framed baby footprint — the one from the day my daughter was born, lost in a flood.

A shoebox of concert ticket stubs — 20 years of shows, lost in a move.

A worn leather collar — the one my dog wore for 14 years, lost after he passed.

A hand-painted ornament — the one from our first Christmas together, broken in a move.

A threadbare baby blanket — the one I slept with for 30 years, lost in a house fire.

A set of forged irons — the clubs Dad played with for 30 years, stolen from the trunk.

A pair of running shoes — the ones that carried me across the finish line, retired and then lost.

A gold locket with a curl of baby hair inside — Mom's first keepsake of me, lost in a burglary.

A patchwork quilt made from Grandma's dress scraps — the quilt that covered every bed, lost in a fire.

A beat-up acoustic guitar — the one I played until my fingers bled, sold for rent money.

A four-piece drum set — the one I played in my first band, sold when I went to college.

A worn Rawlings glove — the one Dad oiled every season, lost in a move.

A wooden tennis racket — the one Mom played with, lost when the club closed.

A pair of leather boxing gloves — the ones I trained with for five years, stolen from the locker room.

A scratched skateboard — the one I rode every day for five years, stolen from a rack.

A violin Grandpa carried across the ocean — the one he played at every wedding, lost in a house fire.

An upright piano — the one Mom played every evening, sold when she couldn't play anymore.

A silver flute — the one I played in every concert and competition, sold when I quit.

A bamboo fly rod — the one Grandpa used every summer, lost in a garage sale.

An armoire wardrobe — the one that held all the family coats, sold when the house was emptied.

An open-back banjo — the one Grandpa played on the porch every summer evening, lost in a flood.

A red piano accordion — the one Dad played at every family gathering, lost in a move.

A Hohner harmonica — the one in Grandpa's shirt pocket, lost when he passed.

A gold lacquer tenor sax — the horn I played in every smoky club, stolen from a gig.

A solid oak dining table — the table where we ate every meal for 20 years, sold in a divorce.

An antique vanity with a tri-fold mirror — Grandma's, then Mom's, then gone.

A wooden crib — the one that held three generations of babies, lost in a flood.

A garden mosaic table — the one Mom made from broken tiles, shattered in a storm.

A roll-top desk — the one where Grandpa wrote every letter, sold at an auction.

A velvet bench — the one where we sat to put on shoes, lost in a move.

A ceramic pot with a glaze that looked like the ocean — the best thing I ever bought, broken by the cat.

A worn leather recliner — Dad's chair, the center of the house, sold when Mom moved.

A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf — the one Dad built for Mom, lost when the house was sold.

A half-finished oil painting — the one I kept meaning to complete, lost in a studio flood.

A spindle rocking chair — the chair Grandma nursed four babies in, lost in a house fire.

An old Japanese woodblock print — the one that hung in Grandpa's study, sold at an estate sale.

A watercolor of the Amalfi coast — painted by a street artist on our honeymoon, lost in a flood.

A bronze sculpture of a dancer — the piece that stopped me in my tracks, lost in a house fire.

A black and white print I developed myself — the best photo I ever took, lost in a move.

A faded band t-shirt from the best concert of my life — worn until it fell apart, then lost.

A fedora — the hat Dad wore every day for 30 years, lost at a restaurant.

A hand-woven wool scarf — the best thing I bought on my best trip, lost on a plane.

Leather ski gloves — the ones from the trip where I met my wife, lost on a chairlift.

A varsity letter jacket with my patches — the jacket that meant I was somebody in high school, lost in a move.

An Aran knit sweater Grandma made — the warmest thing I ever owned, lost in a laundry mix-up.

A leather sketchbook filled with drawings — the record of my best summer, lost on a train.

A pair of Red Wing boots — the ones I wore for 15 years, resoled three times, lost in a house fire.

A lace wedding dress — preserved in cedar for 40 years, destroyed when the chest was left in the rain.

An oil painting we bought at a street fair — the first piece of art we owned, lost in a move.

A complete set of World Book encyclopedias — the books I'd get lost in as a kid, donated when we moved.

A highlighted, annotated organic chemistry textbook — the book that got me into med school, lost in a move.

A brown leather bomber jacket — the one Dad wore from the 70s to the day he passed, given away too soon.

A worn copy of 'Goodnight Moon' — the book I read every night for five years, lost in a flood.

A leather journal — the one I wrote in every day the year Mom got sick, lost in a move.

A pair of vintage clip-on earrings — the best find I ever made, lost one, then both.

A strand of cultured pearls — the necklace Mom wore to every important occasion, stolen in a burglary.

Twenty long boxes of comics — the collection I built from age 8 to 30, destroyed in a flood.

A dog-eared collection of Mary Oliver poems — the book that got me through my worst year, lost on a train.

A massive dictionary — the one where we pressed every flower from every walk, lost in a house fire.

A diamond engagement ring — the one from the relationship that didn't last, returned and then lost.

A gold signet ring with the family crest — Grandfather's ring, passed down, then lost.

A stained Joy of Cooking with Mom's handwriting in every margin — the book that taught me to cook.

A mechanical Seiko watch — the one Dad wound every morning, stopped at the time he passed.

A metal Slinky — the one that walked down every staircase in every house, lost in a move.

A gold locket with two tiny photos inside — Grandma's most precious possession, lost at a hospital.

Silver cufflinks engraved with our wedding date — the one thing I wore that day, lost at a dry cleaner.

An art deco brooch with a sapphire — Aunt Margaret's signature piece, lost in a hotel room.

A first edition of 'The Old Man and the Sea' — Grandpa's prize, sold by mistake at an estate sale.