These pieces have been passed down through my family, usually housed in the attic or cupboards, hidden in boxes labeled as fragile. From an early age, I was told how important these heirlooms were, but they hadn’t seen the light of day in nearly three decades until I found them again. Climbing our attic stairs and digging through the seemingly never-ending maze of crumpling boxes to ﬁnd these memories was not only a literal rediscovery, but a rediscovery of my own heritage. Unwrapping the aged newspaper laden with shriveled roly polies revealed the dust caked and cloudy mason jars that once belonged to my great great grandmother. Unboxing the paint chipped toy piano that is now unnervingly out of tune, and rediscovering the marks in purple crayon I made as a two-year-old that will one day be found by my future children. Through the scratches and decades of use, I am drawn to these worn and used objects and the stories they tell. I am seeking to ﬁnd myself in my ancestors and the things they left behind, bringing the past and present into a shared space.