Sky Blue
I remember that exact moment so well.
Sitting down at my new desk in my new room at my new house with my first piece of homework. It was English, it was easy, and I was more than ready to escape the relentless desert-scape that was the panhandle of Texas.
One of my Dad's old coworkers used to say that Borger wasn't hell, but you could see it from there.
Houston felt like a new start.
I had painted my room with my mom before we had even moved into the house. The room was blank and in the dim evening light as we worked it transformed into a beautiful light blue.
I remember lying down to go to sleep on one of those first weeks spent in the house, thinking to myself, this is the room you're going to grow up in.
And it would be.
It was the room where I celebrated my 13th birthday, the room where I spent my time watching JAG, building model airplanes and teaching myself how to draw. It's where I read my favorite book for the very first time. It's where I cried after learning that my Dad had cancer. It's where I got ready for my first date, where I got ready for prom. It's where I came up with the name for my high school newspaper. It's where I first said "I love you." It's where I longed to return during lonely nights at college. It's where I spent ten years becoming the person I am.
Popping the lid to the paint can wasn't easy. It stuck to the purplish mauve paint inside, but finally it relented and snapped open.
The first swipe of the roller across the sky blue wall was hard. The mulberry colored 'V' stood in stark contrast to the cool blue. But it was a fresh start.
Leaving that house was…indescribably hard.
I stood in the doorway where I watched the last decade unfold and looked around at the empty husk of a room with all the insides scooped out. It was devoid of any of my possessions, yet felt so undeniably like…me; like I had breathed my essence into the walls, watered it with my tears, molded it with my laughter and shaped it with my hands.
I felt, and perhaps still feel, fiercely connected to that home. Entirely bonded to that room. And when I miss it I close my eyes and open my mind to those blue walls. To the mural of mountains that jutted above my twisting metal headboard. To the sight of model airplanes and xbox controllers and bookshelves packed to the brim with the words that fed my mind. I see the clouds that so delicately graced the walls near the ceiling, and there between them, the tiny silver airplane I painted when I was 12.
Sitting down at my new desk in my new room at my new house with my first piece of homework. It was English, it was easy, and I was more than ready to escape the relentless desert-scape that was the panhandle of Texas.
One of my Dad's old coworkers used to say that Borger wasn't hell, but you could see it from there.
Houston felt like a new start.
I had painted my room with my mom before we had even moved into the house. The room was blank and in the dim evening light as we worked it transformed into a beautiful light blue.
I remember lying down to go to sleep on one of those first weeks spent in the house, thinking to myself, this is the room you're going to grow up in.
And it would be.
It was the room where I celebrated my 13th birthday, the room where I spent my time watching JAG, building model airplanes and teaching myself how to draw. It's where I read my favorite book for the very first time. It's where I cried after learning that my Dad had cancer. It's where I got ready for my first date, where I got ready for prom. It's where I came up with the name for my high school newspaper. It's where I first said "I love you." It's where I longed to return during lonely nights at college. It's where I spent ten years becoming the person I am.
Popping the lid to the paint can wasn't easy. It stuck to the purplish mauve paint inside, but finally it relented and snapped open.
The first swipe of the roller across the sky blue wall was hard. The mulberry colored 'V' stood in stark contrast to the cool blue. But it was a fresh start.
Leaving that house was…indescribably hard.
I stood in the doorway where I watched the last decade unfold and looked around at the empty husk of a room with all the insides scooped out. It was devoid of any of my possessions, yet felt so undeniably like…me; like I had breathed my essence into the walls, watered it with my tears, molded it with my laughter and shaped it with my hands.
I felt, and perhaps still feel, fiercely connected to that home. Entirely bonded to that room. And when I miss it I close my eyes and open my mind to those blue walls. To the mural of mountains that jutted above my twisting metal headboard. To the sight of model airplanes and xbox controllers and bookshelves packed to the brim with the words that fed my mind. I see the clouds that so delicately graced the walls near the ceiling, and there between them, the tiny silver airplane I painted when I was 12.
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