When I was a kid, my father would often travel to Atlantic City for the annual PANJ convention. Of course, we all knew what those trips really meant: he was headed to the casino tables. His game was craps, and if the dice rolled in his favor, his suitcase came home stuffed with treasures for us kids.

Even when luck wasn’t on his side, he never arrived empty-handed. The gifts were always eclectic, a little strange, and sometimes completely mismatched to our personalities. One year, my brother received a wooden replica of the USS Constitution. He wasn’t into history or boats—it was an odd choice that collected dust in our living room for years before disappearing into memory.

My gift was just as unusual, though it somehow felt closer to my spirit: an almost life-size bronze goose. Imagine that—a child unwrapping a heavy metal bird with no practical purpose whatsoever. And yet, I loved it. I still do.

That goose has followed me through every move, every season of life, outlasting toys, trinkets, and even furniture. I’m not a particularly sentimental person, yet I keep it because it has become more than an object. It’s an anchor.

It anchors me to childhood and the thrill of my father returning from his trips with something unexpected. It anchors me to the magic of stories—the fairytale shimmer I’ve always seen in the world, even when life has been less than magical. And it anchors me to my identity as a writer, reminding me that imagination is not frivolous but essential.

We all have these anchors—odd, enduring items that tether us to our past and remind us of who we are. They may not make sense to anyone else, but they help us hold steady in the currents of change.

So, I’ll ask you: what odd things have you kept, and what stories do they anchor for you?