Explore Memories

A dented copper pot that simmered soups for my great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, and me — lost in a kitchen fire.

A set of vintage Pyrex mixing bowls in the Gooseberry pattern — one cracked, the rest lost in a move.

A carbon steel wok, seasoned black, that my father used to teach me to cook — stolen from a storage unit.

A hand-cranked coffee grinder whose sound meant morning — left behind in a house sale.

A Sony Discman with anti-skip protection that never quite worked — the companion of every bus ride home.

A Flip Mino camera that recorded every party, every trip, every late night — lost with its footage.

A Palm Pilot m505 — the device that taught me to keep a calendar, lost in a coffee shop.

A 160GB iPod Classic with 12,000 songs — the soundtrack of my twenties, lost on a train.

A hand-built wooden toolbox with 60 years of tools — the thing Grandpa carried to every job.

A 1950s South Bend lathe — the machine Dad used to make everything from chair legs to chess pieces.

A Stanley No. 4 hand plane — passed from great-grandfather to grandfather to me, lost in a flood.

A complete Craftsman socket set — except the 10mm, which was missing from day one.

A pastel blue Vespa — the scooter that made me feel alive in a foreign city, sold when I moved home.

A 1972 Ford F-100 — Grandpa's truck that hauled everything from hay to grandkids, sold at auction.

A Schwinn 10-speed — the bike that was my freedom from age 12 to 22, stolen from a college rack.

A 1960s wooden Chris Craft — three summers of restoration, one summer on the water, then sold.

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

A complete Lego Knights' Castle — the set we built over Christmas break, lost in a basement flood.

A threadbare teddy bear named Captain — my companion from age two, lost in a house fire.

A bucket of Hot Wheels and orange track pieces — the collection that turned the hallway into a speedway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.