Bits and Pieces

I've started the dreaded task of cleaning my room. No, I don't mean just putting clothes in their drawers and books back on the shelf. No, the cleaning I'm talking about is FAR worse. It's the deep I'm-going-to-college-in-three-months type of cleaning. Empty the contents of every drawer and decide what to keep and what to toss. Stand on a stool and inspect the top of the bookshelf and underneath the bed where lost items have been rediscovered. With every item I find, there is a story and a memory that flies back into my head. Good memories, bad memories. The ones that make me laugh and the ones that make me cry. This is what the next three months will be for me: an uncovering of the years past and an uncertain anticipation of the years to come.

It started with the dresser. I opened each drawer pulling out hings that were once adorable and over the years, have evolved into a horrible fashion statement. I pulled out all the T-shirts from all the clubs and events throughout high school, the ones that at one point were purchased to be pajama shirts. I soon realized that one can only have so many pajama shirts and they have become significant enough that they will be turned into a quilt that will journey with me into the dorm. The dorm, the dorm...what else will go with me there and what things will be left behind?

I started to look at all the picture frames, which are so hard to get rid of. I found one with six different squares, each one filled with a photo of someone who has made an impact on my life. Grandpa is in the first square and I realized at this moment how much I truly miss him. Then there are friends, siblings and youth leaders who have all been there for every play, all the tough times and countless times filled with laughter and joy. Then I began to uncover pictures and treasures from my middle school days. Pictures of old classmates and crushes and the box of poetry written in the seventh grade. The poetry brought to mind an unforgettable story.

I came home after school one day with the poem in hand. It was about pets and it rhymed, but I learned that day that just because it rhymes, that does not make it a great work of poetry. My mother, in an odd attempt at being humorous, read the poem and said it was crap. I began to bawl because the pride of my work had just been ripped to shreds. It seemed horrible then, but after reading the poem five years later, she was right: It WAS crap (and, to be fair, she was quoting a movie. I didn't realize that at the time.) And, like most cases where she is right, I will try my hardest to forget about it.

Very few things went beyond middle school, except for a few school projects from my elementary years, which will be added to the memory box. But the memory box is full of even more stories that must be saved for another time. If I uncover all the treasures right away, it will all be over to fast, and I can't have that, now can I?