My room is a mess. Catastrophic, really. It usually is. But this is a different sort. Because I’m leaving. Moving away. Going forward, but always looking back. Maybe that’s wrong–looking back. I’m sure someone wants to turn his nose up, tell me to look to the future; to realize I have a whole world at my feet. And I do, I know that. But I can’t help but glance back. Especially now.
This very friday I am going away to college. Not that far–just an hour, less when my brother is driving. But I’ve been working this week at packing up my room. Which is, I’ve realized, just like packing up my life. How can one ever decide what to bring, what to leave? I don’t want to give anything up. These eighteen years have made everything in my room a part of me. And I want to take it all with me. The coloring books, the legos, the porcelain dolls, old diaries, my baby blanket, my un-scrapbooked photos, the cheaply-created scrapbooks, neon green nailpolish I haven’t used since I was twelve. I want to take it all. But I can’t. Not only is my dorm the size of my bathroom and therefore far beyond unable to hold ALL the life of Shelby Boyer. But I shouldn’t bring it all. This is the end. Morbid, I know. But not really. It’s kind of hopeful. Because an end is only a sad way of saying a beginning. And I don’t think there’s any other way of explaining what I am doing (or why my bedroom looks like a tsunami came and pulled up the carpet). This is a beginning–my beginning. So why am I so desperate to hold to the end?
For a long time now I’ve been holding a one-way ticket to Neverland. I talked about going, I thought about it, I’ve even prayed about it. But I’ve never been able to step away. Because I realized I like growing up. I want to grow up. But I don’t want to let go. Not ever. Peter Pan can have his pirates and his lost boys and mean mermaids. I’m going to stick with that step into the unknown. I’m going to let go of my mommies hand and go to that first day of school without screaming and crying. I’m going to figure out how to cook and clean and get going without my parent’s help. I’m going to dream about tomorrow–boys, parties, degrees, apartments–but, I promise you this, I’m never going to forget that moment where the end meets the beginning. Now, here, with my room a disaster and the memories creating a traffic jam in my brain, I’m going to hold to this. This serendipitous point in time where you have your hand on the door but you can’t help but look back a bit. I look at those journals and scrapbooks and blankets and pictures and I remember. I remember how my dad used to let me climb on his feet and he’d walk me around the kitchen. I remember when mom and I played with baking soda in the kitchen and Travis and I went back to make even bigger explosions. I remember the fights I had with my friends when dances and boys were supposedly more important than each other. I remember plotting out the best surprise party ever and seeing her face when we were all there, waiting. I remember my driving test when I accidentally changed lanes over the white line and I thought the world was over. I remember opening my email and seeing that “You have been accepted” phrase beaming up at me. I remember the night after graduation, lying in bed, holding to my raggedy baby blanket and just crying because, too soon, I would be here, saying goodbye. But then, even as I remember, I put it down. That blanket is staying. Those pictures are still in the box, gathering dust on my closet shelf. I have packed my journals but only so they don’t burn up in a fire I’m scared will take my house by storm as soon as I leave them.
I’m glad for the memories. But I’m even more glad for the chance to make new ones. This is the end. But I’d like to see it as a beginning. I mean, that way my disturbingly dirty room isn’t such a bad thing. When my mom comes in, angry about the mess, I can gently remind her that I have more important things to worry about. Like putting that Neverland ticket through the shredder. There’s no way I’m going now.
wow