In big families, one needs a sanctuary of pure serenity to maintain sanity. Nestled in the back corner of the house lies mine. The twist of a silver handle opens the portal to my wonderland: a place of utter silence. The familiar household pandemonium becomes muted as my tall crisp white door closes to defend the sanctuary from competing loud conversations and a blaring television. From this entry, the ‘silver spoon’ painted walls bring forth a sudden comfort. The natural darkness of my own personal cave is more soothing than any form of ancient meditation. I fall into the abyss of sweet silence and take a moment to listen. Nothing. The paintings on the walls welcome me back with their everlasting grins. Even this is refreshing, being wordlessly greeted. I reach for the light switch placed in the center of the wall, another aspect of the complete balance that thrives here. The lamp illuminates the walls with a rosy glow. The corners of my lips form into a slight Mona Lisa smile as I have come home.

The west wall stands tall and harbors numerous little pieces of my personality. I own a dark dresser with round knobs that make it simple to slide out stacks of neatly folded fabrics. A television sits high above the collection of drawers. It is the host of my favorite Netflix shows during rainy days and sleepless nights. With a glance to the right, I can see my pale pink lamp that makes the gray walls blush. Near it lives an old book with a faded burgundy cover and ivory pages. It has survived 84 years of sharing its stories of riches with its various owners from various generations. Its stories of royalty are well represented as it lives in my personal kingdom. Upon the book lies a ceramic sugar skull gifted to me from my sister’s past trip to Mexico. She found the perfect present by chance and I display it as a trophy of serendipity. Its smooth surface is covered with patterns of swirls and swishes. At the very end of the west wall, harmonious sounds of the past are reborn. As a record turns around and around whimsical tunes fill the room. The soft whispers that escape from the mint record player are the only exception to the blissful silence that stands as a constant background here in my wonderland.

I do not own a wardrobe that leads to Narnia, but I do have two sliding closet doors that lead to my own realm of paradise. A sea of color-coordinated bliss floats proudly above the shoelaces and rubber soles. The archetypical teenage girl creates a whirlwind of clothes that fall into piles on the floor as she shouts,” I was supposed to leave five minutes ago and I can’t find anything to wear.” I do not panic when the rush of the outside world forces the clock to tick even in my Neverland. Each shirt knows its place and displays itself clearly. My eyes scan for only a moment before I can spot the proper apparel for the day’s adventures.  I grab a flannel that hangs amongst other charcoal pieces. At the bottom of my closet my shoes sit together happily in pairs. In the rows of my footwear, one can see all the aspects of my life: my old bleach-stained work shoes, the heels from former homecoming’s, the daily black converse and the stylish sandals. My clothes help keep my old memories alive. The slightly too big NAU sweatshirt is the moment of pure harmony as my family and I strolled through the sparkling snow and drank decadent hot chocolate that tasted just as sweet as it smelt. The faded navy tee is my laughably tragic last birthday. I waited six hours at the DMV only to fail my driver’s test. Instead of being predictably sympathetic, my friends and family made jokes of my misfortune. It was oddly wonderful hearing everyone’s laughter, even if it was at my expense. The simple aspect of some old t-shirts hold such sweet nostalgia and is the anecdote to a panicked mindset.

5 AM wake up. Classwork. Homework. Work-Work. 11:30 PM: I collapse into the sea of pillows, each welcoming me back with their soft understanding. I bundle up under the two blankets and sheets. My long legs cause my ten toes to peep out under my cozy cocoon. Knitted socks are their only defense against the icy air. The whole world pauses and I can finally breathe. As my lashes delicately fall to kiss the bags under my eyes, I am transported into my dreams. My bed is the epitome of pure comfort. This is a necessity for me because my demanding schedule leaves my eyelids constantly feeling as if they have been cheating on their diets, getting heavier as the days pass. In the early hours of a Saturday morning, the sunlight slips through the breaks in the blinds. In these moments, I truly appreciate the blissful beauty of my bed. It is covered in an army of patterned pillows. They patiently wait upon my arrival each night. They are the ones who can see my dreams and enjoy the adventures with me. They are the first ones to wish me a “good morning” and the last ones to wish me a “good night”. My bed is queen sized. This is appropriate considering I am the queen of the peaceful kingdom that harbors it. It is the centerpiece of my heavenly wonderland. It is where my day starts. It is where my days end.