Things That Don’t Spark Joy—They Set Off Fireworks

There’s a dusty old box under my bed that creaks every time I pull it out. No, it’s not haunted. Inside, however, lies my true treasure. Not gold coins or secret maps—but memories. Beautiful, tangled, tearjerking, rib-tickling memories.

They say, “We don’t remember days, we remember moments.” I say, we remember moments and the oddly shaped handmade cards, half-dried rose petals, and questionable origami that came with them.

Let’s start with my daughter’s artwork. I have a collection that ranges from “Wow, this could be framed!” to “Is this a… dog or a spaceship?” But each one has a piece of her—her creativity, her laughter, her “Mumma, close your eyes… surprise!” energy. I treasure those squiggly rainbows and alien family portraits more than the Mona Lisa. Why? Because she made them for me.

Then come the gifts from my husband—each wrapped in more tape than necessary, as if he wanted to secure his love in layers of fevicol and affection. There’s a soft toy that says “You Are Mine” in a voice that now sounds like a sleepy robot—but it still melts me every time.

My mom, the queen of thoughtful gestures, once gave me a Kindle—yes, a sleek, backlit window to countless worlds. “You always have stories in your heart,” she said, “now carry a million in your hand.” That Kindle doesn’t just hold books. It holds late-night escapes, travel dreams, and my mom’s quiet understanding of who I am.

And my books—oh, don’t get me started on them! They don’t just sit pretty on my shelf. They hold me when I fall, slap me awake when I’m lazy, and whisper dreams into my ears at 2 a.m. (I’m sure one of them once yelled at me for not returning to its last chapter.)

My friends have gifted me laughter wrapped in random mugs, notebooks that say “Drama Queen”, and a pen I never dared use because it looked too fancy for my spelling mistakes.

You see, these items are not things. They are echoes of love. They are time machines. They are proof that I have been loved deeply, loudly, and sometimes with glitter and glue.

As I sit back and look at this “junk” drawer of joy, I realize something…

“It’s not the stuff, it’s the stories stuffed inside the stuff.”

A Thought to Ponder: If your house caught fire and you had to grab one thing… would you run for your passport, or that ugly little frame with your child’s first scribble and ketchup stain?

Most of us would run for the ketchup-stained masterpiece. Because what we truly cherish isn’t perfect—it’s personal.

And yes, that pirate under my bed? He’s still jealous. But he can’t have my treasures.