A cobalt blue glass powder box, a small yellow diamond set in an antique ring, a cookie jar without a lid, a pink Depression glass cake plate, and countless penciled or crayoned notes, folded carefully into small, obtuse shapes, letters, and poems: my keepsakes.

In a small, nondescript dish on a bookcase in my home, there are three buckeyes and one small sea shell. My husband put the buckeyes there sometime last fall, and I added the sea shell later. Gracyn and Griffin, my grandchildren, delight in taking them out and holding them. As if they were treasures of inestimable worth. And when Griffin leaves them on the end table or in the toy box, his sister dutifully rounds them up and returns them to their rightful place. The keepsake place.

Years ago, I was doing a two-day guest stint in an elementary classroom. When the teacher greeted me at the door on the first day with the words, Don’t worry, I won’t leave you alone, I admit that I entered with trepidation. I always over-plan, bringing enough writing activities to more than fill an hour session. That day, however, I ran through every activity I had as well as those I attempted to create on the fly. At home, that evening, I braced myself for my final session. I would have an arsenal of activities, engaging enough for even those with 10-second attention spans. Armed with this arsenal, I made my way to the classroom.

A five-minute warm-up spinning from Eloise Greenfield’s poem, “Keepsake,” and then I would launch into my battery of writing activities.

Keepsake                                                                                                     Eloise Greenfield

Before Ms. Williams died                                                                                   She told Mr. Williams                                                                                       When he gets home                                                                                            To get a nickel out of her                                                                                Navy blue pocket book                                                                                     And give it to her                                                                                         Sweet little gingerbread girl                                                                         That’s me

I ain’t never going to spend it.

After reading the poem, I asked the students if they had keepsakes they would like to share with the class. Patiently, one by one, each student offered up keepsakes that they hoped to pass on to their children and grandchildren: his grandfather’s pocket watch that his grandmother was keeping until he became “more responsible”; a magic fountain pen given as a gift by a friend; a frog dagger (I’m not making this up! And from a cute blonde girl with Shirley Temple curls to boot!); a Nolan Ryan autographed baseball presented to him by his mother just weeks before she died from cancer.

As each child spoke, a ceremonial hush came over the room, as if in merely speaking these keepsakes, we could all share in their great worth. What was intended as a quick warm-up ended as an entire lesson in which students wrote their keepsakes into consecrated poetry.

In the sanctuary of keepsakes, everything matters. A buckeye, a fountain pen, a childhood note, an autographed baseball. A keepsake is less an object and more a sacred reminder of what has been and what will be valued. It carries with it the essence of those who have given it. And it is this essence that moves assuredly through generations, endowing new members with the best of those who lived and loved before them.

As for me and my keepsakes, I ain’t never going to spend them, trade them, lose them, or box them up. In the sanctuary of keepsakes, you treasure them until–when the time is just right–you pass them on. With love.