After my sister and I moved out, my parents kept our old room intact. The rest of the house underwent a massive rehaul. Our living room became the exercise room, the sitting room became the living room, the extra dining table from the sitting room was pushed up to the breakfast bar. Coming home for the first time after the re-configuration I kept walking into the wrong rooms, because the furniture would throw me off! When I stay with my parents now, I still tuck myself into Minnie Mouse blankets and dust off the pink jewelry box on the bedside table that houses my plastic toy rings and old friendship bracelets.
What a difference it is from my apartment. Starting over fresh was an amazing time where I could shamelessly pick out a new everything. Floral floor-length curtains, teal bedsheets, a minimalist black bedframe from IKEA. I bought a wide desk like the kind I’d once used at work, made a little paper collage for my wall, and set up this little corner of the living room:
Walking by it ten times a day takes the glamour out, but I looked at it today and recalled the time we twisted together the screws of the lamp; that was the first thing that came. Then the thirdhand wooden chairs donated from the apartment across the hall. After that, my apartmentmate and I sheepishly brought in the string lights we had from when we lived in school dorms, because we missed them too much. Then came the guitar, which is actually just on a very long loan from a friend who’s out of town. And then the pennant banner, leftover from a surprise birthday party. It’s gradually become a five-square-foot haven for music and meditation.