Special I looked into my old bin. It was faded sky blue and had my name written in sharpie in the top left corner of the back. L-I-L-Y. My 6-year-old handwriting was big and bold. My bin had handle flaps on either side. Rough mesh and blue like it. They were worn and stretched from the number of times I’ve picked it up. The rest of the bin felt soft and familiar, the texture of an old, old shirt you got from school and wore four million times. It had soft edges from time and sturdy sides. The bottom on the inside pulled out so you could fold it up. I never did. I took a deep breath in. I smelled sand and chocolate and lemon and more on the surface of the bin. I smelled memories. The sad ones smelled like minty herbs. The happy ones smelled like vanilla ice cream. I remembered the soap a shop had given out on Halloween. It smelled sweet and yummy, almost. So many things this bin reminded me of. I rummaged through the rest of the bin. It sat, dusty, on the hardwood floor of my musty attic. My old shoe box of cards was right at the bottom. It had a pink lid and little pictures of animals on the sides. This box was full of memories. So was this bin. It held memories of 5 years, many places, and even more people. I would always have my memory bin. Blue is a free color, and memories, no matter what they are, are free too.