I have a very large, heavy box in the attic.  It has followed me from home to home over the years, but is rarely opened.  It is filled with a lifetime of letters and cards.  They are the remnants of my childhood.  They are a tangible connection to a part of my life that has long since passed into a realm I can barely recall anymore.  I'm not sure why I cannot part with these letters.  It's not like I open that box on a regular basis and reread the childish dreams and dramas written there, but getting rid of them would be like tossing out a part of something very important to my very existence.  It is perhaps proof of my importance in this world, if only for a small handful of long lost friends.