I still remember your bedroom, you know. The image stirs up emotions and memories I haven’t thought about in several years, and it hits me with a force I can’t explain.

Your bookshelf, I know, is to the left, stuffed with novels I gazed upon, with title scribbled on my palm to read later. Straight ahead sits the table that once was scattered with potions mixed together out of perfumes and shampoos and craft sparkles. Your closet and carpet had explosions of clothes you never bothered to pick up; it was a shock if I ever saw your room clean. And who could forget your movie posters littered across the walls? Harry Potter, who at the time I didn’t even know had a scar on his forehead, stared intensely at me as I sat on your squeaky bed. Then there’s your trusty desk, with tiny shelves filled with loose papers and pens. Sometimes you’d pull out a letter I had recently written to you or hand me your reply stuffed in a bank envelope and covered in stickers—man, I loved those letters. You know I have a box full of them, passed back and forth through siblings, and I hope you know that sometimes I take them out and read them. Do you do the same?

In Psychology class last year, I learned that every time you remember something, you’re actually remembering the last time you thought about it. How many times will it take until I no longer remember your potions or movie posters? Is this why I’m only ninety percent sure your walls are light purple?

I don’t know why your bedroom popped into my mind tonight or how many more months it will be until I think of it again. Maybe ten years down the road, I’ll run into you at the supermarket. Maybe I won’t.

I hope that I’ll always remember your small, messy bedroom and the things that made it unique—and the person who made it unique. Here’s to your room and the memories attached to it. I wish you the best in life.


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