Cleaning my room.

I did something monumental today--I cleaned my room.

You must understand that this indeed is very, very monumental; as my family will agree. Keeping my room clean is something I have never done, ever. I am a pack rat, and disorganized, and a little lazy to top it all off...so basically my room has a history of never seeing the floor. When Micah died, this became even worse. I hated moving anything in my room because that meant changing how Micah last saw it, and changing how the "old" Becca last lived. It was like a sacred archaeological site I didn't dare touch. This also became very convenient because since April I have slept in one room with my sisters, and I didn't need to keep clean/change my room, because I wasn't living in it. And thus it became a sacred place where I could go and cry and be alone, even though I was basically sitting on top of 3 months worth of dirty laundry and clutter.

But...for some reason I spent this afternoon completely cleaning it. I guess I realized that I had to do it sometime, especially with college approaching. Also, an image of Micah popped into my head...him looking me straight in the eye and saying, "Seriously Becca. Just cause I died doesn't mean you can live like a filthy pig." So maybe it was Micah that kicked some common sense into me.

I found many things on my cleaning adventure.
(One of them was the floor--that was really nice to be able to walk again.)
I picked up clothes...pajama pants I wore in the hospital. The sweatshirt I wore the first night; that I don't dare to wash. The shirt I wore to the funeral.
I picked up flower petals, long wilted, that had fallen onto the carpet--that first week my mom had put a vase on my desk, to bring desperate happiness.
I picked up used tissues that were scattered everywhere, all over. I put them in one pile, and together they formed a giant stack that was probably half a foot high.
I found reminders of his absences, that brought pain rushing back--my banquet dress box...a letter from EMU...the funeral program that I shoved away because it was too hard to look at.

Though luckily I also found some happy things, and those kept me going.
Like how every piece of clothing in my closet, I could basically associate a memory of Micah with. (I wore this shirt on my first date...and this sweater in Munich...and this was the shirt we bought together in Lititz...Micah wore this shirt once and it took him forever to return...Micah said I looked pretty in this...)
I found several notes Micah had once written to me, that I had forgotten about. Those were fun to discover and read. It was like a little personal surprise from him. They made me smile a lot.
I found the scavenger hunt notebook Micah had mapped out for me, when he asked me to banquet last year.
I found some notes from a class in school we had together; and half the page consists of our boredom doodles and tic-tac-toe.
I found a pair of socks Micah claimed were "his," which I argued strongly against because I was sure they were mine--and every time I wore them I would taunt them in his face because I still had possession of them.
I found one of my school pictures, clearly not one of my best ones, that Micah found once and laughed at for 5 minutes because he thought I looked hilarious.

...and the memories go on. It's sad to know my room has changed; but like I said before, I don't see why Micah would have wanted it to stay like that. The memories far outweigh the sadness of cleaning.

Tomorrow I'm volunteering at Camp Ladybug, a camp for adults and children with physical/mental disabilities. I am excited. This is something I've been wanting to do for myself, but also for Micah. I can remember how excited he was to work with some special-needs campers at Camp Hebron; and how he connected so deeply with them. I think he would smile knowing I am doing this, and I also think he would want to see me smile as well.