Mom’s House
I moved when I was 6.
Where I sit on the floor to play with my dolls and use my stolen makeup from Mom’s purse. Alone and dancing to 2010 boybands on a pink rug with my pink bed and pink shoes. Before the pink walls there was white and before the white there was wallpaper. The walls were pink now, and mom had handpainted one of them to be zebra print for me. I knew that it didn’t look the greatest, the zebra print that is, but it was on my wall and I was happy that it was mine. My dresser, littered in cheap nail polish and framed photos, was my moms before mine, as was the rest of my furniture. She let me decorate the way I liked to. Mom would read stories until I fell asleep, then give me a kiss on each of my rose cheeks. I open my eyes when I hear the door shut and pull my storybooks out again. My favorite story was of a mermaid. She came upon the shore to take off her tail and walk on the land. A man, besot by her beauty, hid away her tail and forced her into a life with him. She found her tail in the end, free to swim, and my eyes close once again.
Mom just told me Grandma’s moving in! Mom just told me Grandma’s moving into my room with me. My zebra wall got painted over and my pink walls are now purple. Grandma doesn’t like the boybands from my magazine, so my walls stay purple. Purple purple purple. I keep busy on my pink rug with my new-to-me laptop and books and pillow forts. My moms old furniture has now been replaced to fit both of our clothes, although sometimes grandma puts her clothes in my drawer and falls asleep in my bed. I don’t want anyone coming over and seeing my room anymore. At night I lay in silence, reading my stories, coloring, and my eyes close to the sound of low breaths.
Grandma’s moving out of my room and I’m too old for purple walls now. Between the light blue walls is just me and me alone. My walls now hold tapestries and photos and posters of my favorite movies. My clothes are always scattered everywhere– on the floor, the bed, the dresser. Nothing seems to fit my body anymore, so I do sit-ups on my faded carpet. I spend a lot of time alone, checking my phone for updates.
I only have one friend and she smells of cigarettes. She accepts me and we dance in circles to my records. I clean my room every Wednesday so she can come over every Thursday. Though Mom complains that I’m not her little girl anymore, this once-familiar room is becoming familiar again. As I lay in bed until the early hours of the morning, I admire the fading purple paint that had not been covered. Ever evolving am I in my blue room.
To grow is to change, and I am growing restless. Trapped in my room for months and months and months. I need a clean slate, so I’ll arranged my room to how it had once been when I was a child. I’m gonna paint it white. Clean slate. Now within these white walls was all of me. My bed is dressed in Mom’s old leopard sheets. Outside my window is an overgrown herb garden from one of my many failed hobbies. At the end of my bed, my cat is curled and breathing softly. Incense lingers in the air and the tv plays from another room. Stickers litter my door and a box of barbies sit under my bed.
Now when I visit my room at Mom’s house it feels like it’s missing something. Missing all the things I’ve brought to my new home. My cat is getting old, but he still sits at the end of my bed, now with two more cats. Slowly moving all of my things to my new home, my room becomes more and more barren everytime I visit. My bed is never made. Mom spends time in there while I’m away. She gave me her old zebra shirt I had always admired while I was young and my new pink shoes sit in my closet at home.
To grow it to change.
