Some nice stuff and nowhere to put it

I have a lot of nice stuff.

I have a painting of a peacock feather, all gold and blue and tiny jewels, that I plucked from a windswept art fair at Burning Man the first year I went by myself.  I have a curvacious photo that I took, developed, and printed myself, of the naked cyanotyped bodies of women who are no longer my friends.  I have fifteen boxes of books that were what remained after furious weeding of my collection: the ones that are irreplaceable and most important.  I have twenty years of journals, most of them handbound, that contain the names of people who have forgotten me, the places I explored.

I have a life worth of mementos, beautiful artistic displays of affection, and they are all sitting in boxes in my mother’s closet.  I have nowhere to put them, because it seems dangerous and childish to pack my bags full of artworks and graphic novels, as I backpack through SE Asia or settle in Australia.  What of the dress my father bought me to wear to his film premiere? Unnecessary and only werable for special occasions…practically it makes more sense to leave it packed away.

But now I am facing the possibility that I may live a life over the next few years at least that means collecting some neat stuff, things I love, with nowhere to put it.  I have only temporary bursts of recognition at the objects that are small and important enough to travel with me from my past lives.

So let me ask you, Vagabonders: what are the things you miss?  What are the objects you wish you had?