I keep odds and ends. I keep an eclectic culmination of many things I have done and seen in my life. In my room, I keep many things. I keep things for work, and things for play. I keep things with no use. Old things. Dusty magazines, my own personal archive of newspapers and prints; bulletins and brochures. Stacks of musty print, once glossy pages. Maybe some still are. Occasionally, I will look through these pages, flipping through documentations of sporting events, World news, and more. I will flip through memories, passed obsessions, and events of my childhood. I can see that one morning spent with my dad, watching airplanes take off and touch down; I can feel the crisp air as I went to my first baseball game.
In my room, I keep masses of sports columns, programs, interviews, autographs of stars past, present, and future. I keep this accumulation of thoughts, emotions, and words; some expressed perfectly, and some less so, like a scrapbook of the World’s greatest feats and achievements. The New York Times cover page from the Red Sox’s first World Series victory in eighty-six long years. The demolition of Baltimore’s own Memorial Stadium. The U.S. Women’s World Cup team in the summer of 1999. I used to go to the qualifying matches with my dad, decked in red, white, and blue, blood pumping, lungs exhausting. And I remember watching the finals with my family and grandparents that day. I had painted my face and made signs for all of my favorite players. Then there is my collection of Michael Phelps articles and pictures, from his first Olympic race in Sydney to the scrapbook and clippings of Beijing I lay down on top of the stack just yesterday. I keep many things in those stacks. Mostly, I keep triumphs, defeats, persistence, and comradeship. I keep an element of competition, inspiration, and drive.
On my wall, I hang pictures. I keep pictures of children from the Dominican Republic. I loved those children. When I look at the pictures I keep, I imagine what they are doing now. How are their families? Have they survived the hurricanes? I imagine being there with them, in Monte Cristi teaching English, running camps, playing soccer in the park. Joselito hugs me and tells me I am his best friend.
I keep pictures of friends, of family, of places, of ideas. I keep pictures of places I love and places I feel at home. Of Gym Drill, of my neighborhood, the pool, of family vacations, the Dominican, Camp Lachlan. Black and white, in color, some small, some big, I keep photographs on my wall. I keep these photos there and they are the first things I see in the morning. I keep dreams and realities in my room.
In my room, I keep inspiration, motivation, dedication, and comfort. Mostly, I keep love there in my room.
On my floor, I keep schoolbooks. I keep art supplies, I collect shells. On my shelf, I keep the daisy I got when I signed the Honor Statement. Brittle and brown, the dried out petals fall off and make a little pile. Old and withered, I keep the daisy because it is still beautiful. On my desk, I keep old birthday cards, like the one I found the other day. The card is from Cate Auerbach. Cate was a good friend, but she moved away in eighth grade. The card was full of grammatical errors, but I think she meant the nice things she said. I imagine she did. I hope so. On my corkboard, I keep more photos, old playbills, and tickets. On my desk, I keep my calendar.
It’s a calendar from a previous year. But I use it anyways. Some days and weeks I have taken great care to fill things in. But other squares, I see, are empty. I must have forgotten. Sometimes I think about what life would be like if I was more, perfect, more put together, less forgetful. It doesn’t really matter, though; the calendar works, so I keep it anyway. Sometimes, my memory isn’t too good. Sometimes I forget to write in the calendar.
Sometimes, there’s just too much going on.
I keep my computer in my room. I keep connection to friends, and the ability to remove myself from the world. To distance myself. To disengage. I keep some DVD’s, some books. My favorite is Lily’s Crossing, about a girl in World War Two. I keep that on the end because it is my favorite. I keep Prep next to that, because I like the quirky yet lonesome Lee Fiora as she maneuvers through boarding school.
I keep my bed in my room. Of course. Sleep is nice.
I keep books I’ve read a million times, and stories I’ll never hear. I keep drawers filled with random items.
And I keep filling the drawers. I keep adding to that stack of newsprint, every time something amazing happens, or something is particularly well put. I keep taking and printing photographs.
One might wonder when there will ever be nothing, or nowhere, else to add. I’m beginning to think there’s no such time.
I love this, there's nothing else I can really say.
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