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Mostly things I've collected to give you next time I see you.

A postcard from a museum, a naturalist illustration of butterflies and other insects. Because you were studying butterflies and moths.

A butterfly pin from some charity. Pinned to the postcard.

A yellow flower pin, also pinned to the postcard.

A bottle of multivitamins.

A packet of sugarless cough drops.

The Good Fairies of New York. I know you'd love it.

A Geographical Field Study Guide. You weren't impressed with it but I've been keeping it for you, for when you discover the charm of old things.

The Ancestor's Tale by Richard Dawkins. I've been reading it myself.

A prismatic lens simulating insect vision.

The Psychopath Test. I tucked it into one of your boxes. Because we're both a little bit psycho. You more than me.

17 Pink Sugar Elephants as covered by Mates of State

Your frog and tree collage on a picture board you got from a charity shop.

A reproduction of a 17th-century map of Wiltshire drawn by John Speed.

One of the two wine glasses you painted on at day camp.

An incense burner.

Two pillar candles.

A tiny pot of daisies that haven't bloomed yet.

Your big blue goosefeather cushions.

Your pink polka-dot fitted sheet I sleep on.

My journal entry from last year with the ticket stub from Taxi Driver pasted in.

Some books by Bill Bryson. Notes from a Small Island.

A square sketch book you scribbled notes for lesson plans in.

An issue of the The New Yorker with the story you liked.

My spare iPhone I want to give you.

A box of art supplies.

A snapshot of you standing on a green cliff over a blue channel.

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