Yesterday, I opened up a footlocker I bought when I started college. A lot of the items have been moved around and swapped out over the years, so I wasn’t expecting to find any buried treasure or anything. I found my playstation 3, a couple of Nintendo GameCube controllers, and a shoe string.

Admittedly, the shoe string made me pause. Something as insignificant as polyester woven between two aglets caused my heart to sink further into the pit of my stomach. I definitely took a deep breath in that moment.

The shoestring was probably the last remnant of who I was—who I used to be—my best self. It was proof of an identity I used to be so proud to claim, before the fire came and burned it away.

In college, that shoestring was one of my personal acts of rebellion. While everyone was sporting their G-Shock watches and Pandora bracelets, I wore different color shoestrings around my wrists and hair. I love it so much. I didn’t care what the “fellas” thought. I wasn’t trying to catch anyone’s eye. It just felt right. There was no real symbolism behind it beyond it was me continuously being an outlier among my peers.

When the fire came, I must’ve buried it. I must’ve buried that treasure in the deepest depths of my footlocker before I made it out.

Damn, I’ve lost so much of me over the last 20 years. This sucks. The scars have been talking louder over the past few days…and I’m starting to taste the ASH again.

Fuck.