Although the walls of my room are plastered with the contemporary coating of pearly white paint, the soothing sight of bright teal—a capsule of a younger version of me—reveals itself beneath chipped, quiet corners.
The faint hue of pink and brown wallpaper, remnants of a decade ago, lies fondly in my memory; it once cradled my childhood ambition, my wild hopes and fantastical longings that are now stowed away in the chambers of my closet.
I’ve grown up between these walls of many colors and dreamt underneath their kaleidoscopes of chameleon variety, every rendering a testament to a past which dissipates within my foggy memory and the lapse of unrelenting time.
There is not a moment where I do not miss it, or, at the very least, there is not a moment where I am not aware that I will inevitably miss it one day.
I can picture myself twenty years from now, an epitome of a somber reminder that I will never be pushed on the swing set again by my mother on a summer day, my father will never teach me how to ice skate on my neighbors backyard rink again, and my brothers and I will never hold a living room pillow fight again on a rainy afternoon.
In two years, the home that housed two decades of memories will only be immortalized in phone calls and holiday visits. My dog will wait loyally by the front door for us to come home from school, only to realize that his arbitrary patience has no reward. I can only hope he remembers me when I return for Christmas or the occasional break.
I have a lingering, baleful premonition of regret, for amidst all the time I have spent waiting to grow older, the best years of my life have passed, and my childhood has gone with it. No longer will someone cut my sandwiches into triangles or leave me notes in my lunchbox. No longer will the neighborhood ice cream shop know my presence, nor will I be summoned from my bedroom for family dinner. My motley walls will probably house a guest room, or an office, or something of the sort.
I think—no, I know—I will miss it.
But, in the midst of an ending, I always find a bit of solace in recognizing that the pain of its absence means it mattered. Or, more fittingly, it does matter. It is potent and present and proliferating, and perhaps experiencing the facets of its vacancy is simply the price I must pay for being so lucky.
It was a poignant deal I had made when I received a gift of such magnitude. I cannot have something so wonderful without feeling the tinge of its apparent departure.
I know will miss it. But—through chipped paint corners and every version of myself—it will never truly be gone—unable to see, but always able to feel.
