Lost and Found | Teen Ink

Lost and Found MAG

August 5, 2008
By Anonymous

I liked being a mess. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with bowls of cereal and spoiled milk, old magazines, and Post-it notes I had forgotten to remember. My floor was a vacuum in itself, eating anything entering my room. It consumed sweaters, stuffed animals, socks, shoes. When I occasionally did laundry, I would dig up clothes I couldn't even recall purchasing. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, chapstick, matches, loose mints, coins, earring backings. I couldn't always see these things, but I knew that they were safe, nestled somewhere on a shelf. Like old friends in a phone book, I figured that someday I would find all the loose strings and tie them together.

One lonely day in August when all of my friends had yet to return from camp in Maine, visiting family in Florida, or some community-service trip in Mexico, something inside me began to itch. I tried taking a shower, scrubbing myself with every bodywash and bar of soap I could find. I brushed my hair and my teeth, but didn't feel any cleaner. I checked my e-mail, which was empty. I checked the DVR to see if any new shows had been recorded, but I had already seen everything.

I went downstairs and found my brother playing video games, my mom on the phone, and my dad in his office – everyone in their right place. I told my mom that something didn't feel right, and she suggested that for once I should clean my room. The thought itself made me nauseous. I went upstairs to sulk, feeling so overwhelmed that I might as well have been floundering without a boat in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

When I opened the door to my bedroom, everything was in its usual cluttered arrangement. A plate of half-eaten pancakes sat on my desk, soggy with syrup from the morning. My bikini hung lifelessly from my doorknob, dripping pool water. My heavy covers lay crumpled and cold across my bed, molded by the twists and turns of the previous night. Piles of dirty clothes sat unsorted, collecting dust.

I stood in the middle of the cluttered room, breathing in the filthy air that I had become so used to. In the silence of that moment, I began to hear the clock ticking. I became aware of the moldy smell. I noticed that a spider had spun a shimmering line from my lamp to the top of my mirror. I shivered in disgust. I remembered that winter how my stuffed animal, Vanilla, had fallen behind my dresser and I hadn't noticed until I caught the repulsive scent of her fur burning against the heater, until it was too late and she was permanently covered in brown spots.

I suddenly felt sympathy for everything in my room that I had buried, never to be seen again. Lost items I had blocked out for years made their way back into my consciousness: my favorite yellow tank top, the picture of my mom and me on that boat in Jamaica, my baseball card collection.

I had an urge to dive under my bed and uncover everything lurking in the murky depths of dust, and to climb up into the highest corners of my closet and rescue items that had been mingling with the spiders. The innocent piles were growing higher and higher until they were looming monsters before my eyes. They were threatening to swallow me whole. I had to get rid of them. And so I started to clean.

In a box buried under old textbooks, I found a letter that my Poppy had written me at camp. I hadn't thought of him since his funeral. I suddenly remembered the thrill of running naked through cold sprinklers with my cousins, the spicy smell of barbecue mixing with the salty air at his beach house, and the distinct feel of his soft sweater rubbing warmly against my cheek each time he enveloped me in a hug. I remembered my dad rocking me to sleep the night Poppy died, and how the tears wouldn't stop.

I sat with his picture, blocking out the rest of the mess around me. I was in the middle of a storm, but I sat there and studied him until I had memorized every line in his face. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again, and the relief was like the sound of heavy rain pounding on a roof at the end of a drought.

In the drawer next to my bed, I found a friendship bracelet my childhood best friend, Aubrey, had given to me before she moved to California. I traced the green and purple pattern with my thumb, realizing that I hadn't spoken to her in years. The next day I called her, and we talked all night, laughing about memories like dressing up as the Spice Girls for Halloween. She reminded me of the time we built a family of snowmen in my backyard and had a funeral for them when they'd melted. I had lost so many precious childhood memories over time, letting them slip away into the tide like grains of sand. It was the kind of conversation you never want to end because for each moment we talked, it felt like a bucket collecting droplets of water from a leak.

Under my bed I even found that picture of my mom and me in Jamaica. I had forgotten how turquoise the water had looked from our ship, but what really caught my attention, though, was my image. I had buck teeth, short hair, and pimples covering my face. I stared at that girl, barely able to recognize this person who had drowned in the mess of my room so many years before. I decided to completely re­organize and revamp my room so that all the books, belts, and baskets were in their right place. It was like finding the missing pieces of the puzzle.

The finishing touch was framing that photo and hanging it high up on my wall. After all, it was me I had been searching for.

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This article has 426 comments.

tarrabears said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 9:12 am
finding your self is very important !! :)

maverick said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:59 am
wow you writing is so good your macking is work

Zorrin said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:56 am
And Kalob is under ur bed 2

kiki14 said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:56 am
really lol

kaleb 23 said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:53 am
steven is under ur bed

steven4210 said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:53 am
theres a monster under ur bed

kaleb 23 said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:47 am
maybe you should think about cleaning your room more often

badboy69 said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:39 am

i really liked the story just one thing y dont u just clean your room


devonj said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:37 am
it was goooooooooooooddddddddddd

on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:33 am
It was good it reminds me of my room at one point i had forgotten about so much that when i found things i started to cry

badboy 69 said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:33 am
you just cnfused me

Zorrin said...
on Oct. 12 2010 at 7:30 am
This story has alot of thought in it and i think that it is really good

pow wow said...
on Oct. 7 2010 at 9:08 am

i think it was good


on Oct. 6 2010 at 8:24 pm
LovelyPeace08 BRONZE, Vestal, New York
1 article 0 photos 2 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Unforgiveness is the posion we drink till the other person dies."

Wow I remember When I wrote my first memoir for highschool... I spent so much time thinking of the biggest, most catostrophic event that took place in mylife. I love how you take something so simple and small like a dirty room and turn it into somthing personal and huge! It is very inspiring.

Elisabeth GOLD said...
on Sep. 24 2010 at 9:52 pm
Elisabeth GOLD, Nottingham, New Hampshire
10 articles 0 photos 23 comments

Favorite Quote:
"A true friend is hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget."

Ok love the story there was just one thing I could not get over. You talk about the picture of you and your mom in Jamacia, making it sound like you find it, and then you say "Under my bed I even found that picture of my mom and me in Jamacia." So I got a little confused through that.

SelahSky said...
on Sep. 24 2010 at 12:23 pm
This is so bittersweet! Your writing was beautiful and i loved the subject. I have had these same feelings. Whenever I decide to really clean my room (not just throw everything under my bed) I always find forgotten memories... letters from long lost friends, journal entries that conjure up still raw emotions, sketches of my dream house from when i was very little, and so many other precious little things that had been lost in the time and the dump of my room. Your writing has inspired me to go and clean my room. :) I cant wait to see what i find. Keep up the writing. You have the unique skill of taking something commonplace and making it beautiful. Thank you!

on Sep. 24 2010 at 10:29 am
californiainaugust BRONZE, Chicago, Illinois
2 articles 0 photos 2 comments
this is a really great story, and so unbelievably relatable to so many teenagers

on Sep. 11 2010 at 2:21 am
kayogirl94 BRONZE, Salinas, California
2 articles 1 photo 5 comments

Favorite Quote:
"Be a man of Right, Never one of Might. Be a leader of the people, Never the tool of authority. Be the friend of the masses, Never the slave of wealth. Be a wise man of good, Never a cunning evil one." -Daisaku Ikeda

I know this may sound super nerdy, but I liked the way you used alliteration towards the end. It made me happy.

Kane said...
on Sep. 3 2010 at 2:15 pm
I'm very happy to know that I'm not the only person with a junky room!

kane said...
on Sep. 3 2010 at 2:13 pm
This is great. It reminds so much of myself.