It wasn’t the first room you saw when you walked into the house. It wasn’t the biggest or the grandest by far; in fact the whole room sagged a bit like the features of a very old man. But nonetheless, there was something about it, some spark that ignited within me when I walked in. Suddenly I forgot anything I was worrying about; everything scary or anxiety producing melted away like a mini marshmallow dissolves into warm hot cocoa.
There was a little fire in the corner of the room, held back by a screen. The stones around it reminded me of the ancient buildings of Rome though in reality they had come from Lowes, painstakingly picked out by mom from thousands upon thousands of colors, patterns, and shapes while we complained and played tag among the paint colors, and you accidentally tipped over one of the shelves, and mom had to pay for all the messed up cans. The couch was leather and the color of the warm sand on the beach during that blissful sunset we had buried ourselves under and found in all of our clothes for the next month that summer so long ago that felt like it was yesterday, the carpet the color of those vanilla wafers we had shared while we watched that George Clooney movie that got the worst reviews but made us laugh so hard that we fell on the floor. Stacked across from the couch, the cabinets were exploding with games we had played for hours and accused each other of cheating on, and the shelves were flooded with a rainbow of books, most of which I’d read to you before bed and then stopped once I heard the heavy breathing that meant you were asleep and smiled to myself about how innocent you always looked when you were sleeping even though during the day you were a little devil. Walls of wood enclosed the little room on all four sides, like the Lincoln Logs we’d thrown at each other that time you told me that my hair was ugly and I’d called you fat. Though not the most popular choice and the subject of many complaints on our part, the walls were never repainted or altered. Those walls had stood by us through everything and always made us feel safe and secure. Like that time when you were three and I was supposed to watch you paint while dad was cooking dinner, but I left the room to talk to Phoebe on the phone and you got paint all over the walls and yourself. Or that time when you were seven and you pushed me into the wall so hard that my scalp cracked open and I got blood all over the place and had to get stitches. Or that time we hid between the couch and the wall and pretended mom couldn’t see us while she yelled at us about breaking her grandmother’s vase. The walls had watched us grow up, go from colicky infants to awkward teenagers and now full grown adults. The room as a whole smelled to me of childhood, that unmistakable scent of mischievousness, freedom, and ignorance. Though through the years it had gone through different carpetings and couches, new blankets and televisions and cabinets, the essence of its soul was one that tugged at something deep within me, something past the fights and the tears that lurked in its crevices, that told me I was truly home.

And that’s what made it so hard to leave behind.