My One-hundred-and-ninety-eighth Post

After our family moved to Tucson, Faybe and I always shared a room together. It made complete sense logistically to group us together, and we never had many major line-down-the-middle-of-the-room problems, aside from her strange affinity for a 101 Dalmatians poster that I could not abide.



We stuck together until Martin moved out and Faybe claimed her own little cave of a room on the opposite side of the house. Which was fine--we were both glad to have our own space for some of those dramatic teenage years.

After she moved out, my mom and I began a summer-long remodel of what was now my room. We pulled out the brown speckled shag carpet and laid wood floors. We stripped the popcorn off the ceiling and replastered it. We put up base boards and moulding. We planned and painted and decorated. It turned out pretty nice, if I do say so myself.

But here's the thing. When I come home to visit I stay in the same room I've slept in since I was 11, but it is not the room of my childhood. It's different. And sometimes I wish I could go back to visit. I miss that gross shag carpet and that stupid poster. I miss staying up talking with Faybe until we drifted off listening to my cassette tape collection.



But when all is said and done, I supposed I'm grateful for the big, soft, fluffy bed (which I'm currently stretch out across). It makes reminiscing so comfortable. The squeaky twin bed of yore would be much less conducive to my nostalgia.