Every morning before school, I get a large cup of spiced chai tea.  I carry it with me throughout my morning, and it’s usually gone by third period.  It’s a comfort drink and allows me to ease into the day.  You could say I’m not much of a morning person.  I carry my backpack with me too, but that’s necessary to lug schoolwork.  If it were up to me, all I would need for school everyday is a notebook and pen. 

I prefer to carry as little as possible, not because I’m lazy but because it’s nice to only have to carry around your own body weight.  I get home, and the backpack is the first thing to go. I can’t even stand purses or handbags hanging off my shoulder.  I feel restricted.  Any time I go somewhere, my phone goes in my pocket, and I have a small wallet with a loop so it can hang around my wrist.  I don’t see a need for a purse because I never take anything of value with me.  Anywhere. 

    Everything I have that’s sentimental, that I will keep with me for the rest of my days, stays at home.  Safe.  In my room.  Jewelry from relatives who’ve passed, random doodles in a notebook because I got bored in class, movies from my childhood, all of my books, are scattered throughout my room.  My room is essentially my own personal treasure trove. 

    I have a jewelry stand that looks like a barbie doll mannequin with metal limbs that protrude from where the head would be.  I got it for Christmas from my grandmother.  I was around eleven years old, and oddly enough that was the year my family decided to get me jewelry for Christmas.  I remember being upset that I couldn’t use the elaborately beaded, blue dress on my barbies. 

    Hanging off those protruding limbs are an array of necklaces and bracelets that I never wear.  I have a silver locket that my Aunt Shirley got for me when she married my Uncle Tony.  I have an elephant necklace with my birthstone that came from my late Nana.  I have a necklace  and matching bracelet engraved with my initial from my parents.  I have two of the same necklace, one from a Lia Sophia party, and one from my great-grammy, which she gave to me shortly after the jewelry party.  I keep both because I can’t tell which one was from her. 

    When I was born, my grandparents got me a silver jewelry box that plays music.  Inside it is a glass slipper from Cinderella, my favorite disney princess as a child.  There’s a small elephant figure that came from my daycare teacher.  A rock that I thought brought me luck while I was away on my fifth grade field trip.  There’s also a shark tooth necklace from my dad that he brought back with him when he went to Las Vegas ten years ago. 

    There’s a ring with my birthstone on it that matches a birthstone necklace from my late Nana because we shared the same birth month.  It’s a set my Papa bought for her back in 1980.  It sits inside a blue velvet ring box that sits inside a small gift box.  Along with that, I also have a rose pin that used to belong to my Nana.  I took it because it made me think of Beauty and the Beast, one of my favorite love stories. 

    Buried under a stack of books, I have a bin that holds a seemingly endless amount of papers.  Every paper has either doodles and designs I drew that actually turned out okay, or ideas to start and develop stories.  I keep them for inspiration, a writer’s block cure-all.  I attribute my love for writing stories to my cousins and grandmother.  My cousins and I were the ones who played the games that sparked my imagination and need to get it on paper.  My grandmother provided me with the tools to do so.  I spent hours on her laptop that first year I started writing.  I was ten years old.  The nights I slept over were spent writing on that laptop, and in the quiet of the following mornings, I was at the laptop writing.  Even if it was about nothing.  My first story was based off a game I’d played with my cousins.  Whatever we added to the game that day, it was added to the story the next. 

    One half of my room is occupied by stacks of books.  Books from my childhood, numerous trips to Barnes and Noble, flea markets, the Free Books shelf at the library, and a few I’ve accidentally hoarded from past elementary teachers.  All have been leafed through, and about half have been read cover to cover.  I carry each of these stories with me, as they have had a significant impact on my perception of the world.  Within each story, I search for a connection to reality. 

    I owe my love for reading to my brother and grandmother.  My brother was the one who introduced me to books when I was little.  When he used to read on his own all the time, I wanted to be like him.  But when his reading itch went away, mine stuck.  My grandmother encouraged it because she loved reading too.  It was something for us to talk about. 
    All the things I have in my room connect me with the people I love: my family and friends.  They are a part of me, and ultimately, have made me who I am today.  Every experience with them has shaped my personality, values, and beliefs.  I carry it with me, inside me, where it will be safe.