Keir Graff

When I was probably seven years old, my maternal grandfather gave me a wooden treasure chest he’d made himself. His style was functional, not ornate, but to me the chest was the most beautiful thing in the world. It had hinges, a chain to keep the lid from flopping backward, a hasp and padlock—and a brass plate with my initials.

The chest was treasure in itself, but I filled it with more: coins, polished rocks, a homemade porcupine-quill necklace, a silver-and-turquoise ring I bought on a family road trip to the Southwest, bullet shells I picked up in the alley. A cedar box from a Yellowstone Park gift shop, a chest within the chest, protected the most valuable items.

I kept the box locked and carefully hidden, hoarding my wealth, greeting the world with confidence born from the knowledge of my secret fortune.

This year, in lockdown, I weeded the contents, tossed some, gave some to my kids, and sent some to the Salvation Army. I couldn’t decide how to get rid of the box itself—after all, it had my initials on it.

I kept it. I wish I’d kept every piece of treasure, too. But I’m finding new things to put into it. Silver dollars from my paternal grandfather. Small military artifacts from my historian uncle. The keys to the Mustang I sold when I moved to Chicago.

Everyone should have a treasure chest.