I squeezed my backpack through the thin frame of my locker, and when it finally popped through, it was followed by an inundation of papers and pens and a notebook and more junk than I thought could fit in a standard locker.

I thought that it was time to clean out my locker.

And by “clean out my locker,” I meant just do enough work so I wouldn’t be smothered by excess paraphernalia. No less, no more.

And so I began. I first went to the bottom––where I threw my things in between classes––and decided what to throw and what to keep.

Textbooks––keep, I guess. First semester notebooks––throw, for sure. Binder––keep. Granola bar wrapper––throw. Arts in the Church binder I never used––throw. Physics note-card from first semester––throw. One black sock––keep.

Wait? One black sock? Where did that come from?

After I organized the bottom of my locker, I moved to the top. Oh dear. I guessed that this is where my black sock came from. This pile of junk had been collecting over the course of my entire year. I was surprised that the top rack of my locker could support this stuff.

Things in my locker: A box from a 12-pack of AriZona iced tea, a picture of my friend Leila cut in the shape of a heart, several bits of sticky tack, two and a half ID cards, my school phone books I never brought home, a pair of basketball shorts from the play, a box of peppermint tea bags, a box of chamomile tea bags, a box of instant hazelnut coffee, a coffee mug with God-knows-what dried at the bottom, a smattering of coins, four––no, five pens, several AP Stats assignments I had failed to turn it, a singular paperclip, my book form AP Government first semester, a gift card to Holiday gas stations worth only a few cents, but unfortunately, not my other black sock.

And now I had to take all of these objects, and arrange them in a logical, organized fashion. But I am much too lazy to become fully organized. So I arranged my junk in such a way that (hopefully) wouldn’t spill out when I opened my locker.

I thought about how I would eventually meticulously comb my locker, digesting the memories of each artifact in my head––reliving the memories of my senior year.

But not now. I slammed my locker shut and went home.

A week later, I was faced with the task of truly cleaning out my locker on locker clean-out day. I took all of my things, and organized them neatly (for real this time). Now I could see everything clearly, pondering its purpose, its story, and debating its future.

Not really, though. I just dumped everything into the trash. Memories are overrated.

I still haven’t found that other black sock.