“Haley, go back inside and make sure you have everything,” she said.
“Mom, I already checked!” I replied.
“Check again!”
“Fine!”
I stomped back towards the house, slowing as I approached the door, realizing that this might be the last time I yanked open the screen door that always stuck, quickly by-passed the entrance to the dungeon-like basement for the much brighter all white stairs leading me into the kitchen.
As I enter the kitchen the ghost of “Paul Harvey News and Comment” playing through the black long boxed radio lingers in my mind surrounded by the scent of cinnamon rolls and laughter from the good times of family dinner. I begin triple checking for items left behind, seeing nothing but white cabinets, appliances and golden brown wood floor, I continue on pacing quickly through the house. I linger in the places I spent the most time, hoping that I don’t find something I forgot so my mom is not right again. Walking quickly on the wooden floors of my house into dining room and living room which are filled with memories from the Christmas tree decorating I never was able to help with and the sounds of Sunday afternoon football games, I see nothing. Not even a window covering to prevent the sun blinding me as I check for forgotten items.
Nothing open spaces of emptiness remain in those rooms I sprint up the stairs. It’s almost time to leave for school. As I hear the creaking and cracking of that third step I’m reminded of sliding down the stairs in swishy sweatpants with my brother or the times when we, Michael and I, were not so well behaved being forced to sit on that creaky stair in time out. Eventually, I reach the top banister, gasping for air, I automatically, as I’ve done thousands of times, take a sharp left heading down the short hallway for my room.
This is the place I’ve grown up. I’ve danced to one too many songs in this room, sang off key to one too many of those songs and read one too many books here. This is my space. Now, it has nothing; nothing but the memories in my own head. If I wrote them onto post-it notes, I could fill the walls like wallpaper. Here I stand, five foot seven inches, long brown hair, dressed in the navy pants and light blue polo uniform, ready to go off to another day of sixth grade and this, this, is the last time in my old room.
“How was your day?”
“It was great! We’re going to the new house, right?”
“Yah, we’ve got most of it unpacked. We left your room alone for you.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
We pull into the rocky driveway of this butter cream shingled house. The driveway, in which, I will drive my first car. The driveway, in which, my best friends will break my 10 foot basketball hoop with a bike. My new driveway. I slowly walk up that driveway towards the auburn door of this unknown house.
The scent of old a folks home wafts towards me as I go down the five steps into the finished basement. Hesitantly, I take a right turn on the brand new cream colored carpet. The slim dark hallway is filled with boxes. I have one goal: my room. At the end of the hall, Michael is already unloading his room. I see him.
“Hi. Sorry I got the bigger room.”
“Psh, don’t care. I don’t need it.”
I laugh inside, fully knowing the competitive nature of him that this argument will continue, someday. I turn left.
I walk into this room. This room with turquoise shag carpet, which still remains today, full of boxes: my boxes, my boxes from my old room that need to be unpacked. I can do nothing but stand and take in the changes that are going to happen. I have no idea that I will stand in this room after playing my first varsity volleyball game as a freshman. No idea I will watch cable TV from in this room as the election of our first African American president finishes. No idea I will get ready for dances and dates in this room. This perfectly square room with eight foot ceilings and dark wooden closets I walk towards the far wall with near the one of the two windows. I sit on my bed. I realize that this room is now my room: my new room.
