We all have the things we hold on to.
The end-all be-all worst-day-ever things, that time I wrote this and thought it was clever things.
They carry words or sounds that someone gave us a long time ago and never fail to take us back there, places we prided ourselves on being sad to leave.
I listen to a song you sent me in the car as someone who saw me as imitable tells me she's reading something I wrote her, stamp slightly upturned and penmanship deliberately rushed. A little gesture swimming in the bottom of my backpack that sits at the top of her top drawer.
Don't be afraid to give them out.