The best presents I received growing up came from my uncle who lived in Japan.

Once every year or two, he’d appear in his tweed suit and thick glasses for a brief visit with our family. He didn’t have kids and he didn’t seem to know much about them, so his interactions with me were limited to pats on the head or a firm handshake. But he was well-to-do at a time when our family was still clawing through student loans, and he always came bearing gifts from the magical land of super-skyscrapers, shimmery-eyed cartoon characters, and my favorite food group: ramen.

Our family’s first digital camera was gifted by him. So was this smooth, brick-sized pastel yellow box containing the most exquisite collection of tiny office supplies you’ve ever seen — a stapler the size of my thumb, a small vial of clear glue, an eraser-sized tape measure, and an elegant pair of scissors — each sitting within its own felt-lined nook and displayed as immaculately as jewels. I have never loved office supplies so deeply, and I likely never will again.

But no gift compares to the one I received when I was eleven or twelve. I was sitting in the living room reading, minding my own business when my uncle came in and wordlessly handed me a package that changed my life.

It was a Sony walkman.

Hold up, you say. What’s the big deal? Everyone had a Sony Walkman growing up.

Ah, but not this Sony Walkman. Not one from the Motherland itself, a model I’ve never seen in the U.S., all sleek curves and cool metal. Not in this shade, which I called yellow at the time, but which was brighter and grassier than any yellow I’d ever seen. I didn’t have the vocabulary for it then, but I do now. The damn thing was chartreuse.

It was the most magnificent thing I’ve ever owned, and not just because it played my recorded-from-the-radio mix tapes. Its every detail was, in my mind, flawless.

I’d thumb over its cool, metallic surface every night as I fell asleep listening to my favorite Jocelyn Enriquez song. I’d marvel at its beautiful metal hinges, as intricate as the inner workings of a clock, every time I popped it open to switch tapes. Its size was smaller than all the other Walkmans (Walkmen?) I’d seen, barely larger than the cassette tape itself and perfect for a jacket pocket. The shiny chrome buttons along the top were a pleasure to press. The headphones came with their own volume controls, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. And in a stroke of sheer genius, the Walkman came with a twistable add-on that could hold a single AA battery to extend play life.

There have been many, many objects in my life that I have appreciated. That have done what I’ve hoped they would do, that have saved me time and made me pause in admiration for their beauty.

There are few that have completely blown me away because they were so far and away better than anything I could have imagined.

This was my experience with my Walkman. Music was incredibly important to me at that time in my life, and I could imagine no better conduit to connect me with my life’s soundtrack. Plus, it was so far and away better than anything my friends had that I felt like the coolest kid in school.

Even back then, I’d sometimes stare up from my bed, earphones plugged in, wondering about the people who built it. Who were they, and what kind of magic did they possess to create a thing that mattered so much to me?