The Room I Knew

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. My eyes are trying to adjust to the sliver of light that is being let in by the faded pink curtains that are only a breath apart. Before sitting up, I bring the covers up to my nose and take a sniff into sheets that aren’t bringing much comfort. With one inhale I can smell the lavender and soap fused together that didn’t fully get mixed through, as the comforter was obviously too big for both the washer and dryer. 

When I finally get the courage to sit up and take in my surroundings I look straight across at the desk. Pens that haven’t been touched for years sit cramped in a mug that was too cute to not have, but too precious to drink out of. The chair looks worn from years of being sat on as someone contemplated how x equaled y and if it would really be that bad to start a sentence with the word “but,” even though every teacher told them that starting sentences with words like “and or but” was for first graders.

Turning my head slightly I can see the closet that used to be filled with the newest styles and trends, because fitting in was crucial to everyday life. It was just the right size to hide in when playing hide and seek, or muffle the sounds of cries after being told you weren’t pretty enough. Throughout the entire room, it was the safest space to just crumble and pretend that nothing else existed. With the mixture of smelly shoes, clean clothes and salty tears, the square closet gave you the perfect shot of being numb from everything else. 

When I laid back in frustration of looking around at a place I can’t remember, I looked at the few stars that remained stuck to the ceiling. The biggest star is barely the size of my palm, yet, the distance between the bed and ceiling gives it a depth that makes it look like it could light up a room with its brightness. But, if you turn off the lights and make the room completely dark, the stars stuck above only give a sense like they used to light up a little girl's life.

And that’s when I remember where I am. The room I gave myself to. Where my body changed and learned how to develop with time. A tiny closet I threw clothes around in because nothing fit right or was good enough to impress those who had something to say. It was a sanctuary for the days I felt like no one loved me and a confession box when the pain became too much. A mint green desk that I hit my head against when I struggled with homework and dreamed of getting out to explore the world. Where I wrote down my deepest fears and highest desires. Bed sheets that my mother hand picked without my consent that I groveld over because I used to think flowers were for children and that no boy would want to sleep under these sheets. And stars that I stuck onto the ceiling because I was afraid of the dark, but didn’t want a night light. I would jump on the twin sized bed and stick the stars in the empty places while my father was concerned for my safety. After jumping too high and filling the room’s sky with a greenish yellow glow, I had missed the mark and fallen off my bed, hitting my chin on my bedside table. The pain didn’t last long as my father ran to grab the first aid kid and my mother held in her laugh knowing I was just like her, creative but a little reckless. To think, this was all the least of my problems. 

I finally push myself off of a pillow that is not my own, because that is the one thing I made sure to take with me when I moved out, and I drag my body out from under the comforter to the curtain providing the slightest bit of light into my life. Taking a breath that comes all the way from the souls of my feet I let my whole body rise and fall for just a second. Because I know when I open the curtains fully, my body won’t rise again. It will be falling for ages, not knowing if or when it will get caught. The urge to just crawl back into bed keeps tugging at me like the pull of coming home drunk and gravitating towards the fridge for a midnight snack. It’s so close, yet you know you will regret it in the morning. And you can hear your mom’s voice when she calls in the morning saying “Sounds like you had a fun night,” and all you can say is “ugh, please can you not yell into the phone.” If your mom is cool she laughs and asks how your night was, and if there were any cute boys who will hopefully give her grandchildren. You say no, of course, and reassure her that you are making your way in the world. Then your mom, your beautiful, loving mother tells you she loves you and is proud of you, and tells you to be careful drinking that much, “it will give you a little belly, missy.” Those are all the things she would say. 

Except, when I finally get over the dread of opening up the curtains and see the procession of friends and family going to the front door one floor below me, I remember how I got into this room. How two nights ago I got a call from my father about my mother’s accident. He was calling from the hospital; she was in surgery and should be out soon. I told him it didn’t matter, that I would come anyway and would be there when she woke up.

 I can’t remember how I got to the hospital. While I know I drove myself, against everyone else plea for me not to, I can’t remember which streets or turns I took to get there. No music played on the radio and to be completely honest, I can’t remember if I turned my headlights on. The only thing I remember is stopping at a yellow light. One block away from the hospital. Though I could have made it, all I could hear was my mother’s voice yelling at me for speeding up at a yellow light when that color is clearly the color to slow down and take a breath. If I would have run it, would I have been able to at least tell her I love her one more time? What I would have given just to see her take a single breath. 

I’m slowly remembering why I am in my childhood room. A place I only thought I would sleep in for holidays and family reunions. Not for tragedies. The faintest knock lands on my white chipped door. My mother would have come in without asking, that’s what reminds me that none of this is a dream. A father who looks like he hasn’t slept in days enters into the unknown space. He is my father, but he looks nothing like the man who raised me. Hollowed and shattered, my father seems to have forgotten why he is still getting up each morning. Until his eyes land on me, only then comes a slight reminder. 

“No rush to come down, but everyone is slowly entering.” 

“I’ll be there in just a second.” 

He takes a beat, because smiling is a response that seems unfair. As his eyes take in the room we used to play pretend in, he too can feel how even in the rooms that weren’t hers feel unfinished. “Your mother yelled at me right after you left for college. I had made the mistake and started to take off some of the stars on the ceiling. It’s like she could smell the mistake occurring as she marched in and reprimanded me for stripping something you love. To which I reminded her that you were 18 and that the stars barely even shined anymore. Of course, that didn't matter to her. She ended up sleeping in here that night. I never should have taken them down. I should have filled the whole house with those stars.”  He looks up at me and can see my tears falling, and because he knows his daughter so well, he closes the door to let me cry in the entirety of my room. Because a closet can’t contain this amount of grief; no room truly can. 

The room is unfamiliar. I know how I got here, but it’s for all the wrong reasons. Every room in this house won't feel right without her there.

I slowly grab clothes that give me the sense to walk out of the room and down the small flight of stairs. Before I leave, I stand on top of the flower sheets and reach up on my tip toes for a star. It comes off easily and even with the slightest pull it gives the possibility of ripping. When you look up, you can see the slight outline from where it stayed stuck for too long. I step off my bed and clutch tight onto the star with all my might and walk out of the room, into a place that may never feel the same.