text: There is a chest shoved beneath my bed that is filled with memories; scribbled crayon drawings done with smaller, clumsier hands, old assignments marked with now-peeling star stickers, even a handful of essays kept because, in my mother's words: "Throwing them away after all that hard work would be kind of a waste, wouldn't it?" I am visiting home for the first time since leaving for college when I decide to heave the chest out from its hiding place. The first thing I notice when I am actually looking at it is that it is far smaller than I remember it being. Once upon a time, I'd been able to lay down inside of it, not quite tall enough for my toes to touch the end, but now, I am quite certain that attempting that particular trick would end in nothing but embarrassment and a cramp in my legs. In that moment, I am struck with the realization that I don't just miss being small--I miss her , that version of me still wrapped in the warmth of childhood, entirely comfortable in her naivety. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, adamant that I will not start crying before the chest is even open. I scoot closer on my knees, pushing the lid open with slightly trembling hands. There, right on top, lays Sunshine. Sunshine is a pink-and-white stuffed tiger. The friend who had gifted her to me all those birthdays ago had faded into the back of my mind, but one look at Sunshine, with her mismatched eyes and pink patches so sun-bleached they might as well be white, and a name rises in my head: Faye. Faye, my best friend from kindergarten all the way through third grade, when she had moved away. Faye, who had once beaten a kid up for daring to insult me. Faye, who always seemed so much older than she really was, already world-weary at the ripe old age of nine. My eyes begin to burn with the threat of tears. I scoop Sunshine up, pressing my nose into her side and inhaling the barely there scent of strawberries. Of course. Of course Faye, more tuned into the people around her as a nine-year-old than I am even now, would find me a gift so perfect. I am so overwhelmed with love and appreciation for a girl I haven't seen since before I hit double digits that my throat constricts and the tears begin in earnest, spilling down my cheeks and leaving damp spots in Sunshine's fur. I'm sure that anyone who happened to peer into my room just then would be thoroughly confused by the grown woman sobbing like someone has just died, clutching a stuffed animal like a lifeline. It feels like hours before the tears finally begin to slow, leaving me with a congested nose and tear-streaked cheeks. Suddenly exhausted, I flop backward onto the carpet, still holding Sunshine to my chest. I can't help but laugh a little at myself--the biggest meltdown I've had since I was a kid, and it was over hazy memories of a girl who might not even remember my name. I miss her, as silly as it is to miss someone when you haven't thought them about in years. I miss sitting on my porch, fingers sticky with melted popsicles and shoulders pressed together despite the heat. I miss sleepovers, trying to stay awake through a movie only to look over and see her drooling into her popcorn. More than any of that, though, I miss the quiet moments we would spend together, just sitting and enjoying each other's company. I eventually remember the chest, sitting up with a sigh as Sunshine slips from my chest and down into my lap. I pull things out one by one until I come across something that threatens to make the tears start up all over again: a picture of me and Faye, protected by a bright yellow frame. I have my arm slung across her shoulder, our cheeks pressed together as we flash matching grins at the camera, both of us missing one of our front teeth. I pry the frame open carefully, sliding the picture out to read the text on the back: "What a pair! Faye and Naomi, June 16th, 2013." I smile despite the renewed burning in my eyes, tucking the picture neatly back into its home. The rest of my visit home passes quickly, and, before I know it, I am standing outside my car, nearly ready to head back to school. My mother stands in front of me, clutching my hands. "It was so nice to spend some time together," she says, her voice quivering like she thinks she'll never see me again. She presses a gentle kiss to my temple, lingering there for a while before she finally pulls away and bids me a rather tearful goodbye. I arrive back at school two items heavier than when I left. The front pocket of my backpack bulges with Sunshine's stuffed form, and the picture sits nestled very delicately in a nest of tissue paper that Mom had insisted I needed to "protect such a precious memory." I had rolled my eyes at this at the time, but as I move to place the picture on my desk, I can't help but feel grateful; without her advice, such an old frame might not have survived the hours-long journey. Next comes Sunshine, who I place at the top of my bed, right next to my pillows. I never would have considered having a stuffed animal out in the open like this when I first moved in, but seeing her there, sitting as comfortably in my college-issued bed as she had the one at home, I find myself not caring whether my roommates think it's silly. I lay down in bed and press my nose into Sunshine's fur, my chest warming at the gentle scent of strawberry. I am not small, anymore. But, as I lay there in bed cuddling a stuffed animal, I think a part of me still is. A part of me is still the little girl who squealed upon unwrapping a pink and white tiger and promptly gave it a name that did not fit at all, and was delighted by the new gap in her smile because it meant her and her best friend were now matching. I will take care of that little girl as long as have to, because, despite my initial annoyance at all the childish thoughts and habits she left behind, I have learned to love her. I love her, and I love me, completely and entirely.