I remember when we got the white carpet installed. It smelled so new, and fresh, and it felt so soft. And then it became a part of my past.
My upstairs was my playground paradise for my imagination. Each room represented a different place, whether it be a log cabin or the central town, my farm that I tilled using a frame of a paint roller, or the passageway under the well that was blocking off a much needed water supply. I could go anywhere I wanted to, and all the rooms played a part.
I remember my brothers' room, the biggest one in the house, with its blue carpet and double window seats. I'd always try to brave it through the tunnel to the other side, but my courage always failed me until another day. So i'd hop into it and drive my imaginary car instead.
Losing that was hard.
My own room, with its bunny wallpaper that my sister put up and all these things that celebrated that I was here and existed, now has bare walls. I never knew how small it was until I approached it one day, carpet and wallpaper gone. How had I not seen how cramped I had been? I simply never needed the space until now.
My sister's room, with its thick green carpet became my playroom. Her brass bed was a magical thing, one that required I climb up it just to get on. There were two bunnies that sat in little wicker chairs next to a wicker table. I suddenly miss them now.
Now that the renovations are done upstairs... I feel lost whenever I go up there. The magic, the feel, the happiness...it's all gone. Nothing hints at the happy childhood I had there. All I have are memories, and nothing to back them up.
That hurts.
Because I want to share these memories with the people I love. I want to be able to take them by the hand and show them my past, show them everything that made me who I am.
But all I have are memories.
In a way, maybe it's better like that. Memories can't be hurt or undone or changed. They stay constant. So maybe the childhood isn't gone. It's just living somewhere else where I can't ever lose it.
