I'm not a particularly sentimental person.

I don't hang onto things like ticket stubs from first dates, old love letters from past boyfriends, photos from events I've been too, or trinkets I've bought on past trips. I tend to prefer to live in the moment and enjoy what I have while I have it and simply just look back onto my memories of how I felt in the moment. I've given away childhood toys (save for my very first stuffed animal, Mr. Bear. He's never leaving my side.), thrown out art projects that took countless hours to create and gotten rid of silly little gifts friends have given me over the years. In fact, I currently have two tubs of beanie babies sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor waiting for me to take them to Goodwill.

But, there is one thing I can't get rid of no matter what.

In my nightstand, the same nightstand I've had for the past eight years, is bundles of cards. Almost every card I've received over the years-- birthday, Christmas, Easter, graduation and more-- reside in my bottom drawer. I started keeping them when I was 14 just on a whim. I packed them away, just tossing these little pieces of paper and glitter into a tiny empty drawer.

But, as I've grown older, this drawer has become less and less empty with each passing year. There's the physical fullness of the innumerable cards I've stashed away, but there's also the emotional fullness. There are cards in there from people I will never receive another card from again. Some are simply from past friendships that have run their course-- fun in the moment with some good laughs along the way. Others are from people who are no longer with us on this earth.

Since I've started this drawer, I've experienced some significant losses with one being as recent as this past month. As I comb through this drawer, I can pick up and hold these tangible pieces of their love. These loved ones took the time to go to the store, sort through the cards on display and pick on that said exactly what they wanted to say to me. The scrawled hand-written messages they've added are a testament to their love for me.

The ones I currently find myself lingering over the longest are from my grandfather, my Paw Paw. I found the one from when I had turned 18 almost four years ago; in it, he wished me many blessings as I entered adulthood. I found his card from my high school graduation in 2013 and then yet another birthday card from when I turned 20. Years had passed yet he still had the same beautiful handwriting I had grown up reading.

Looking at these cards hurt.

It hurt because I knew there wouldn't be another birthday card from him in my mailbox this year. There wouldn't be another card telling me how proud he is of me as I graduate college. No more Christmas cards. No more Easter cards. No more. We won't talk on the phone and I won't have to repeat myself four different times because he forgot to put in his hearing aid. He won't be on the other end of the line asking me if I had gotten his card yet because, somehow, every year his was always the first to arrive no matter what state or city we were living in. He won't be there to ask me if there was a little "something" (usually money) in the card and if I liked my "surprise".

It's funny how these little square sheets of cardboard can hold so much meaning-- even for someone as unsentimental as I.

In my nightstand are my most prized possessions and I wouldn't give them up for the world.