Boxed Up Memories

            Every time I clean my room, I have to come face to face with the reality that I am a pack rat. I tend to attach sentimental value to objects and keep them for years and years. I keep ticket stubs from concerts, movies, and sports events, museum guide pamphlets, paper wristbands, receipts and any other scrap of paper I receive at an event. I still have all my cross country sneakers from high school because I ran over 400 miles on each pair and can’t bring myself to throw them away. Their worn out bottoms with no tread, frayed laces, and mud stains are a symbol of every mile ran and how much hard work it took. I also have all my birthday cards going back at least five years, letters from my high school boyfriend, napkin notes my mom packed in my lunch box, and notes written on scraps of paper from my friends in high school. All of this stuff is kept in shoe boxes under my bed, in my closet, or posted all over my bedroom walls. I hoard all of these seemingly insignificant things because I have attached memories to each object. I am afraid without a physical object to hold those memories will not be as vivid or simply forgotten, so I keep everything.

            While no one else could get value out of my old pairs of sneakers, concert ticket stubs, or personal letters, someone could get value out of all the books I keep. Being the avid reader and hoarder that I am, it’s no surprise that I have amassed a large number of books over the years. I had them stacked up to the ceiling of my closet, and recently, I took them out, boxed them up, and moved them to my parent’s attic. These books were mostly ones I read in junior high and high school. As I boxed them up, I looked at each cover and could remember bits and pieces of where I was when I read it, who was there, and my initial reaction to the book. I pulled out The Maze Runner and remembered being in ninth grade and reading it with my best friend in study hall. We each had a copy and sat side by side reading the same page in our respective copies. As I boxed up The Hunger Games series, I recalled finishing Catching Fire, shutting the book, and exclaiming loudly in the library to my friend, “What do you mean there’s no district 12!?” I packed up Twilight and remembered all of the heated debates my friends and I had between those who were team Edward or team Jacob.

            At the end of it all, I had packed away four boxes of books, but kept out a large shoe box full of my favorites and my new books I had yet to read. For years, my parents suggested I take all the books somewhere to resell them or donate them. However, I don’t think I ever will. Their monetary value doesn’t out weight their sentimental value. I don’t have a problem lending someone a book, but I don’t want them to be permanently gone and sold. I have memories of reading all of these books and how they made me feel the first time I read them. I hope to one day unbox all of the books and have a house big enough for a mini library. My life would be made.