The museum

        Look I'm going to be honest from the start. I've never written anything, and I can I can count the number of books I have read if I take off one of my shoes.
       
        But I'd still like to give you a glimpse of what goes on under this thick skull of mine.

        I'm a college student in Utah, and recently returned home to Florida to be with my family for Christmas. My family still lives in the house I grew up in. We moved there when I was....8? I don't even remember. (Mom if you're reading this you can chime in)

        I stayed in my old room. My mom had changed up the bed, but everything else was the same as I had left it when I ended my childhood that day I packed up the car and headed to my first year of college. All the toys I used to play with. My BB gun. My army men and their tanks. My trophies. Even my old clothes that I left behind. It was all there.

        There was a spot next to the window I used to sit in. Outside that window was the front yard, a few palm trees, and a single street light that provided just the right about of light so it wasn't creepy. This spot next to the window was comfortable. With the window open, the warm Florida breeze, or the sound of rain outside made it even more of a mini sanctuary. It was my getaway. My place of refuge. I stared out that window whether I was thinking, talking on the phone to a girl, or just enjoying the terrifying majesty of a thunderstorm.

       I also sat there when I read the scriptures and prayed. I remember having a good amount of moments of comfort in that spot next to the window.

       Last week when I was home I sat in that spot. The view was exactly the same as I had left it. I looked out on the front yard and remembered all the things I had done in that front yard. All the fun that was had with my family and friends. Frisbee. Baseball. Me and my little sisters building forts out of sticks and palm fronds. Mowing the lawn in that relentless Florida heat. Learning how to back a trailer from my dad. Playing with Comet, my dog. Shooting all sorts of stuff with airsoft, paintball, pellet, and potato guns with my brother and my best friend. Playing "kick the can" on thanksgiving night every year with everyone.

      It was all there, right in front of me. I was in the very place all of it had happened.

      The memories were there, but I couldn't touch them. Ever since I left home in 2009, it has always felt like this coming home. It's not quite the same.

      I feel like I'm in a museum, looking at my childhood through a piece of glass.

      Life moves forward whether we like it or not. I can look back through my museum and look at what I did with the time that I had. But I can't touch it, because of the glass. All I can do is enjoy the artifacts in my museum, and learn what I want to do with the time I still have.

      What does your museum look like? When you're gone, it will be left behind. What will they charge per person to come look through it? Will it be free and open to the public because the artifacts are watered down and invaluable, or will it be an exclusive, one of a kind museum that has rare, interesting, and inspiring artifacts?

      It's up to you.