Note: I recently wrote this for a writing workshop. Since I haven’t posted in a while, I thought it would be a nice thing to share.

There is a house down the street that’s built of cardboard. I don’t mean that the walls are made with the stuff, or that windows are covered by it. From the outside, it seems like a normal house…one made of bricks and wood.

But, if you venture inside, you will see that beyond the sheetrock, there is a second wall; one made up of boxes piled from floor to ceiling. Every room is a time capsule…filled to the brim with mementos from the past.

In the living room, it’s books; the spare bedroom it’s clothing. The kitchen is littered with nick knacks and appliances from the 70’s. Lord only knows what’s in the bathroom.

This house belongs to Mr. Stevens. He’s 90 years old, today.

We gather to celebrate his birthday and as the flames of his candles extinguish, I wonder where he’ll put them when we leave. Will he throw them away or add them to one of his boxes?

I imagine him searching the house to find the box where he put last year’s candles and I wonder if he has ALL his birthday candles tucked neatly away somewhere. At night, when he’s lonely, does he pull out that box and remember all the parties and celebrations from birthdays long gone?

The people in town say nasty things about him. They call him a ‘hoarder’, but never ask him to show them what is he hoarding…or inquire as to why he does it in the first place.

I wonder; do those boxes hold memories, or regrets?

Maybe it’s both.

I don’t know what happened to Mr. Stevens or how he ended up alone in that big ole house. I do know that he used to travel a lot. The proof of it is present on shelves and tables in his living room.

I imagine that he was once a great adventurer. You can see that in the way his eyes sparkle when he tells you one of his stories.

Adventurers like Mr. Stevens always have that grin on their face. The one that makes you think that anything is possible. As if they are about to leap out of their chair and take off on a journey to places unseen.

When I think of Mr. Steven’s house, it makes me feel better about the fact that my junk drawer is overflowing and that the books on my desk are piling up, but I can’t help but wonder if I’ll be like Mr. Stevens one day. Will I live in a house made of cardboard? Will I hold on so tightly to my past that I become entombed by the collections I’ve acquired?

But, no, probably not.

I’m no adventurer, after all.

Come to think of it, I would be fine turning out like Mr. Stevens. I would, in a heartbeat, trade my humdrum life for one so grand that I can’t bear part with its mementos.

So maybe I’ll buy myself a walking stick and map. I’ll visit Mr. Stevens and ask him to tell me where he found his most favorite treasures.

Then, I’ll find myself a box and fill it with evidence of a life well lived.