Love Letters to Forgotten Things is a series of lyrical reflections, strange monologues, and tender tributes to the lost and nearly-lost moments of our shared past. It's for the things we remember quietly, in car rides and in grocery store aisles. The moments we thought no one else had held onto—but did.
We write to the scuffed plastic of Trapper Keepers. To the last golden hour of summer vacation. To the sound of a local DJ’s voice echoing through a putt-putt golf course at 10 p.m. on a Tuesday. To the feeling of being known—completely—and then, one day… not.
These aren’t love letters in the traditional sense. They’re love letters to smells, to sounds, to textures. To weird rituals, awkward moments, and the small sacredness of being a child in a world that hadn’t yet forgotten how to feel big.
They are not eulogies. They are reminders. Tiny, flickering reminders.
Because the past isn’t gone—it’s just quieter now.
We’re not here to mourn what’s lost. We’re here to marvel at what once was— and how lucky we were to have been there at all.
There’s no proof. No pictures. Just this: a love letter.
It wasn’t just the burlap or the barrels of seed. It was the smell—fertilizer and promise. It was golden light, slow voices, and hands plunged deep into the future. This is a tribute to sacred Saturd…
Fiberglass dinosaurs, plastic putters, and parents who were really there. In this episode, we revisit nights on the mini golf course – when Fleetwood Mac played in the dark, bug songs hummed overhead…
One day you're trailing behind your mom at the grocery store, begging for cereal and cringing as she sings along to Johnny Mathis.
The next? You’re mouthing Bette Davis Eyes in front of the frozen pea…
When I was 12, I brought home a necklace for a girl on my bowling team.
Not because I knew what I wanted from her—but because I didn’t.
This episode is about those early, fragile attempts to turn feeli…
They were just waiting for a ride. Maybe a bus. Maybe a break from being alive too long in one day.
This is a story about the moment a stranger—someone you’ll never know—opens your eyes to the quiet, …
You weren’t He-Man. Or G.I. Joe. Or a Transformer. But you didn’t have to be.
This story remembers the quiet magic of knockoff toys—those brittle, off-brand figures that filled drugstore aisles and ig…
They kept every one.
This story revisits a box of childhood drawings discovered after a funeral—and the quiet ritual of turning memory into smoke, and grief into gratitude.
A deeply personal reflection…
You didn’t come every day—but when you did, everything stopped.
This story remembers the magic and madness of the neighborhood ice cream truck, from tinny songs to melting push-ups, and why that warbl…
There was a time when sleep just… happened.
This story explores the forgotten peace of childhood nights, the stillness of bedroom sanctuaries, and the quiet we traded for adulthood’s anxiety, headline…
There was a time when a few dried beans and a Berber carpet could become an entire universe.
This story explores childhood creativity, the weird little games that saved us, and the rare, beautiful mom…
The mashed potatoes were glue. The jello was an abomination. And yet… you showed up. Because someone you loved loved it.
This story explores the tension between ritual and resistance, bad food and goo…
It was never just concrete.
This story honors the place where childhood was lived out in bike tires, porch lights, slammed doors, and soft goodbyes that never felt final—until they were.
A short reflec…
He wasn’t really my uncle. But every neighborhood had one.
This story remembers the kind of man who seemed carved out of reruns and pipe smoke—a quiet neighbor full of folding-chair philosophy and Fat…
It was never for show. A folded handkerchief, quietly riding in a father’s back pocket, became a symbol of care, preparedness, and love that asked for nothing in return.
This short story explores grie…
Every life is a romance...don't forget to love it back.