My childhood bedroom is empty, devoid of all evidence that I used to inhabit that space in the first place. The dresser that used to hold my clothes, from infancy to adulthood, sits in the corner. My mattress and box spring were leaning against my closet doors and now they’re in my adulthood apartment. One lonely photograph of Lake Forest College from senior year, the glow in the dark stars I stuck on the ceiling when I was eleven, the scratches on the wall from when I had guinea pigs are the only fragments left of my 20 years in this space.
It’s disheartening to realize that every memory you’ve ever had only exists in your head, regardless of where it was. The light still shines the same through the lace curtain onto the purple walls that my mom painted when I was eight, but places only hold things, light and shadow, remnants of spills and messes. They don’t remember the late nights fueled by junk food & caffeine, the all nighters my friends & I were famous for pulling, the first time I had a boy in my room. Those walls don’t remember the afternoons gathered around the tv, watching my cousins play the play station. Those walls don’t remember the first time I got my heart broken and how many nights I cried into my pillows. My room has been the stage for so many of my childhood memories, and now all it’s been reduced to is four purple walls and a single window with a lace curtain.