When I was ten I was fascinated with my future. My mind was constantly spinning one story after another that would, I was sure, end up being the story of my life. I imagined I'd go to college, get married, and become a famous journalist or newscaster. One day I would be interviewing people like David Letterman and Kirk Cameron.

It was with this idealization of my future that I decided to treasure my past with my best friend. It was a sweltering summer day. All the kids in the cul de sac were running through the sprinklers on my front lawn. Not us, though. Melissa and I were ferociously digging up a hole in which to place our time capsule. We had enlisted the help of our two brothers, Jason and Matt. Each of us deposited a valuable something into the capsule. The capsule was actually just one of those seashell covered boxes some relative brought home from some airport souvenir gift shop. Mercedes and I loved that box. So it was quite a sacrifice to bury it deep in that hill at the end of the cul de sac on Dorothy Street.

I can remember that day so clearly. I remember how excited I was to wait for twenty, thirty or maybe even forty years and find our beloved items once again. I remember the exact spot in the hill where we buried it-about one third of the way up, directly parallel to the manhole in the street below. I remember that beautiful seashell box going down into the dirt.

Last summer I watched as that hill was demolished by a team of yellow tractors. I was alone in my sadness. Melissa had moved away years ago, and our brothers were both living in different states. I alone watched as those monsters pushed and shoved our time capsule away and gone forever. I searched for the seashell capsule, but to no avail. It was gone. And it probably wasn't the tractor's fault. It was surely gone years ago, swept away in a rainstorm or blown out of the hill by the Santana winds. I just wish I could remember what was in that box.

Learn more about this author, Channing Merced.
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