In my room, there’s a cabinet.
The cabinet was my grandmother’s.
Or maybe my great-grandmother’s. I can’t remember.
The cabinet has glass doors and lights in the shelves.
I keep keepsakes and memories of friends long gone in there.
I keep the doors closed, but dust always seems to get in somehow.
So, I open it up and dust everything off again.
Every piece I pick up to dust off reminds me of someone. Or some time. Or place.
Sometimes, I can’t remember.
I should write these memories down, I guess.
I close the doors and turn out the lights.