Under the premise of spring cleaning, I recently tasked myself with tackling the mess that is my closet. Typically this would mean trying on clothes, donating what I’ve outgrown, maybe keeping a few items for nostalgic purposes. But this time, the closet clean out has proved to be a more complicated affair.
The shelves of my childhood closet are practically collapsing under the weight of numerous dusty boxes. As a child I kept every letter, ticket and scrap imaginable. I couldn’t even part with the shreds of paper I tore out of my notebook to doodle on. I was the type to collect stickers but leave them stuck on the page, worried there would be better use for them later in life.
My inability to let things go has always been somewhat of a character flaw. When the tree outside my bedroom window was cut down, I didn’t speak to my dad for several days. Its removal had felt like a personal betrayal. And my family still, to this day, likes to mention the day we got rid of the family couch — and the fact that I tearfully chased the garbage truck down the street as it drove off with the piece of junk.
My most prized possession, though, has always been my collection of novels. I was dreading reaching the box of children’s books I knew laid in the corner of my closet. When I eventually came across it, I decided to take a look inside, but I was sure I wouldn’t be able to part with any of my literary keepsakes. As I pulled out each book, the memories came flooding back.
On top was “The Tail of Emily Windsnap” by Liz Kessler, book one of my favorite series at 8 years old. I only owned the first book because my grandparents’ neighbor had lent me her copies of the rest of the series, preventing me from amassing too large of a collection. That summer lingers in my memory, defined by the sun-dazed days spent binge-reading these novels. The story follows a girl who discovers she’s half mermaid, navigating her identity and the journey she takes under the sea. Upon finishing these books, I fell down a rabbit hole of all things mermaids, using them as inspiration in my own creative stories.
Next came my well-loved and battered copy of “The Wishing Spell” by Chris Colfer, book one of The Land of Stories series. Discovered in a garage sale at age 9, I immediately found a new favorite book. The story follows two siblings who fall inside an enchanted book where fairy tales come to life, and I quickly found myself wishing that I too could enter this magical world. The spine was already cracked by the time I got my hands on it, but it became even more beat up after my countless rereads. I remember dragging my dad into the reading frenzy, convincing him to read it after me and forming my own mini book club.
At the bottom of the box was “The Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins. I had discovered the book in a similar place in middle school — but instead in my sister’s closet. The story holds a special place in my heart, as it marked my middle school foray into young adult novels. Set in a post-apocalyptic future, it was my introduction to dystopian themes alongside contemporary relevance. I was enamored with the story and characters and, once finished, I began searching for similar novels to fill the void it left.
With a smile on my face, I packed the books I hadn’t touched in years back into their dust-encrusted box. I felt so lucky to have these memories and experiences to look back on. These stories played their part in my life, but what more can these words on paper do for me? Although there’s nothing wrong with keeping a collection of your life’s library, it’s not necessary to practically hoard all of these sentimental objects and mementos. The world would not end if I donated my old books or threw away a note I wrote 10 years ago.
I may have outgrown these novels, but my love for them has remained and manifested itself in a new form. Glancing at my current bookshelves, I see that my interest in fantasy novels never faded. I still search for the adventure that I found in stories of my childhood. So I made the decision that would send my childhood self into a panic: I donated my box of books. Why not take the opportunity to spark someone else’s love for reading? Saying goodbye to these stories was my way of honoring the impact they had on my life. It wasn’t a goodbye to something I loved, rather it was introducing something I loved to someone else.
I know these stories will be in good hands, for they were collecting dust in a donation box or on a stranger’s shelf long before they got to mine.
Senior Arts Editor Meagan Ismail can be reached at mismai@umich.edu.
