I played treasure hunt in my old bedroom yesterday and I found so much good stuff: Classroom-passed notes and letters from crushes, Madonna cassettes and embarrassingly bad mixed tapes, clippings of magazine-published poetry and a folder of dot-matrix printouts. I could have easily spent hours digging through the treasures, remembering tidbits of my childhood, alternately laughing and sighing at the beauty of it all. But I didn’t. We were cleaning out my room for a new foreign exchange student moving in, and it had to be ready today.
It felt strange cramming my past into boxes and clearing up space for this new girl. Actually, it felt really kind of sad.
But then I got to my own place, carting some of my treasures into the house. I plugged in the old CD player that Dad gave me to replace the broken one gathering dust in the living room. I popped in one of my new CDs, and I sat indian-style on the hardwood floor and sang along.