Why am I sitting on the floor of an empty bedroom in an empty house?
Why does my mind keep telling me that this is my room when none of my belongings are here?
This isn’t mine anymore. I feel like an intruder.
Let me explain.
As I write this, I am sitting in my empty bedroom in my almost empty house post move-out. The keys will be handed over to the new owner in five days from now, so I came home this weekend to remove the last of my belongings from my childhood room. I shuffled around the house all morning helping my family pack up twenty years and move it to a U-Haul that costs twenty dollars per day.
After we finished around 1PM, I took a shower with the little shower supplies I still had here, put on clothes from my suitcase, and sat down on the floor in front of my closet mirrors to put makeup on. And while trying to coat each eyelash with an even amount of mascara, I couldn’t help but stare at the empty space behind me that was also reflecting in the mirror.
When I was done, I moved over to my built-in book shelves, something Mom and Dad designed for the bedrooms, and I began writing. Now that we’re all up to speed on how I got to the floor in the empty room in the empty house, let me just say — this SUCKS.
This is no longer my room. But then why do I feel an attachment to the paint splatter on the floor from me and Dad painting it a year ago? And why am I concerned about the wall that looks a little cracked because I accidentally smashed my knee into it? And why why why can I not leave it?
It is my room. It always will be. My parents designed this house. They bought it as a fixer-upper and a few years later, did just that. They renovated the whole thing. I know this is my room because I can look around it and tell you what it looked like before it was beautiful, I can tell you all the paint colors the walls have been, all the posters that covered that paint. I can tell you every which way furniture has been arranged, I can tell you about the time I cracked the closet door’s mirror. I can even tell you what movie I was watching when that accident happened.
Supposedly, the new owners want to turn my cozy place into a walk-in closet. I already don’t like them. But I never have to interact with them, right? So, it doesn’t matter. They will just pass through the spaces that I associate with my childhood. They will just splatter the walls with their own laughter and arguments and fears.
So no, I don’t care.
Except I do. And I will. For awhile. I think that's okay.