We Are What We Keep

When my parents came up to visit in July, they brought with them the 5 remaining boxes that tied me to my childhood and my Arlington home. They were the remnants that I left until I had my own place where I could keep them. Well...I guess I've grown old enough to have that happen, because they're now nestled in between our bar chairs and the washer and dryer in our small storage garage!

I finally got around to opening them, which was just a trip. It further proved that I am not only Wholly Nostalgic and Entirely Too Sentimental, and, with some finality, dumped me clear over into the I Keep The Weirdest Crap category. I found my Batman the Cartoon trading cards (tell me when those weren't cool........), the Egyptian and Chinese learning kits that still have all the pieces because I didn't want to take away from the entire package (dood, I was such a weird kid), and my Lisa Frank tins still overstuffed with the florescent artifacts of girlyness gone by. Stacks of papers I'd written (including my Epic 49 page US Goverment paper - highest grade EVER in the history of that class), drawings I'd completed (and my almost empty sketch book save for the feather and marbles I drew that I can't seem to throw away), and awards I'd won throughout my illustrious career as a High School Drama Queen (first place senior year at the TAPPS Academic Meet - I beat Ben for the first **only** time in my life).

There was a brick from the building at Cook Children's Hospital where I was treated for Hodgkins disease that they tore down in 2002, almost 10 years later. The book my dad wrote me when I was 12 years old and in love with Colin Irving. Dolls I made at Mindy Trim's birthday slumber party. My beloved Peaches, who still has the hospital bracelet to match mine when she went in to surgery with me the first...second...times. Endless stacks of momentos from trips I'd been on, places I'd seen, friends I'd had. Favorite books that, for whatever reason, hold a special place in my teenage heart that still has a small, soft beat inside me.

On top of one box were full spreads from September 11, 2001. Then - probably worse - September 12. I guess I wanted to remember. Wanted my children to remember. When I was sure I'd have them. When I hadn't been told chemotherapy can cause incurable genetic abnormalities in babies of cancer survivors. The Velveteen Rabbit girl from Target; my sister has her beau with his green velvet Christmas coat and soft bunny ears. My pound puppies looked up at me with their eternally sorrowful eyes from the bottom of the stuffed animal box. My Little Ponies and Lady Lovely Locks spilled out with Ken and Hawaiian Barbie. The tiny blue jean purse my mom sewed me when pastels were so in and blue jeans were recycled in every way possible. I'd stuff that thing til it almost broke with what I thought I'd need should everyone on earth disappear but me. I mean, seriously. What child thinks like that?!

My student Bible from Junior and High school with its colorful chapter labels and irritating spiritual commentary. Reminding me of the saga of youth group and visiting churches and becoming part of an almost-cult in my search for God knows what in high school. There were bulletins still in it on which I'd written notes on the sermon, and notes back and forth between whatever boy had garnered enough guts to sit next to me that Sunday. Because, whether you admit it or not, in high school, wasn't that what we really went to church for?

What was probably craziest were the outpouring of journals. Starting before 1997, I have book after book of Kendra. Some were written to God. Some were just "Journal". So many of them absolutely adolescent. But there, in a few boxes, stacked in various journals, is my life according to me since I was 12...all the way through college. Sometimes, it's hard to stand yourself! What idiots we all were. Will I look back in 10 years and think the same thing about what I'm writing now?

A part of me hopes I do. In doing so, I can see how far I've come. And be happy with where I am right now. Sitting on a crate. Admiring my sticker collection that took me years (and infinite patience) to amass. Realizing without any regret that these boxes will remain exactly like they were brought to me, with each piece of my life still a part of the whole mismatched collection. That now, they will sit in my attic for years. Forgotten for a long time. But worthy of the space for the short, bittersweet pleasure of remembering all over again.

Oh Sherry by Journey