What do we hope to preserve when we bury the past? In this episode of Love Letters to Forgotten Things, Bunny recalls the day he sealed grief inside a homemade time capsule—believing memory, love, and loss could be frozen in the earth until the future was ready. But time had other plans. Boxes collapse, paper fades, and even the most sacred keepsakes surrender to soil.

What remains is never the treasure chest we imagine, but something smaller, more fragile: a drawing, a photograph, a clipping. Proof not of permanence, but of impermanence—of how memory itself resists preservation.

This isn’t just about a box buried in the woods. It’s about the rituals we create to hold onto the people we’ve lost, and the bittersweet truth that memory is always shifting, never fixed. If you’ve ever wished you could keep something—or someone—unt ...