One after another, I stuffed my belongings into my suitcase, working efficiently. I had never been the sentimental type; even as a child, I had tried not to assign feelings to inanimate objects. Things got lost, burned in fires, shrank in the laundry. They were disposable.

My room was nearly bare now; a couple of decidedly lame band posters still hung on my lavender walls, where they would stay. Stuffed animals sat perkily on my bed, my mother’s idea of a joke. I smiled in spite of myself. This was it, then. My parents were giving me time, though it wasn’t necessary. I’d been ready for college for a while now.

On a whim, I checked under my bed. What I pulled out was both familiar and foreign: a pair of purple socks.

Suddenly, I began to cry. These socks had been my favorites in elementary school; they had served me well on both sick and sad days. They had embarrassed me as I grew older, but here they were. With a sad smile, I added them to my bag. I closed it and stood.

It was time to go.