Lena's Blog

  Dear iPod Touch 7th Generation, When I reached the concluding gift of my 11th birthday and unwrapped you, neatly arranged in Apple’s signature white box, I felt happier than ever before. There you sat in all your glory, complete with all of the amenities an iPhone had, besides a phone number. You were the perfect gift for a sixth grader like me, whose parents believed that letting their kid have a phone at such a young age would rot their brains, but somehow, they approved a virtually identical device.  From then on, I treated you with the utmost respect. I picked out a sturdy, durable case, so as not to scratch your radiant rose-gold metallic finish. I perfectly attached a plastic screen protector after several bubble-filled, failed attempts. I even made sure to charge you only during the day, instead of overcharging you while sleeping and consequently ruining your battery. All in all, I kept you in pristine condition.  Unfortunately, my romanticized view of you couldn...

     When I was younger, my days were filled with sports, music lessons, and various hobbies. I crammed my weekends and after-schools with activities and friends, not wanting to waste a second of time. Like most kids, I loved playing outside with my neighbors after dinner and dreaded the time of night when it became too dark, and my parents would call me inside to go to bed. I didn’t understand the point of sleeping in late, much in contrast to my older brother. Unlike some who tried to push back their bedtime when they were young, I tried to push back my wake-up time. I couldn’t comprehend the happiness that others, like my brother, found in staying in bed past the early morning and doing nothing all day. I promised myself that I would never become a person who “wasted time” sleeping in and being lazy.      I continued to stay true to my word throughout several years of my life; however, upon entering high school, this promise became harder to uphold. My f...

The best thing I’ve ever received in the mail was never addressed to me at all. It was, however, addressed to my brother, “it” being the engine of a Lionel model train set from my grandfather. My grandpa gifted it to him for Christmas one year when we were young in hopes that, as his only grandson, they could share the interest. My grandpa’s hobby of building model trains and planes has been an integral part of his life since he was a kid. Growing up with two sisters, this passion was the one thing in my grandfather’s life that his sisters were uninterested in, something he had all to himself. So, naturally, when my brother was born into the family, the sole grandson, and he was old enough, my grandpa gifted him the first part of a five-piece train set.  Equipped with working headlights, brick red paint, and a plastic gold bell, the engine practically shone in its gift box. And there it remained, for days upon days, until the box was put into storage untouched, where days turned in...

     The objects that tell the story of my life don’t hold value physically, but rather, they hold significance because of the memories they induce. The objects that most wholly tell the story of my life are my collection of medals and ribbons that I have acquired from gymnastics. Up until quitting in 9th grade, I could not remember a time when I wasn’t in the sport. From the signed certificates I received from leveling up when I was little to the medals I won from frequent meets once I grew older, these items help narrate the story of my life. However, the story they tell goes beyond the achievements they represent. When I recently rediscovered my box of awards from the depths of my closet, memories of those times came rushing back. Yet, when I picked up the silver all-around medal from my very first meet at 8 years old, I did not think of the accomplishment itself or how fulfilled I had felt at that moment. Instead, I remembered how, the week prior to that meet, I had l...