My parents bought the house where my mother still lives in the early seventies.  When I was born I shared a room with my older brother.  The curtains were navy with red trains and the wall paper, I know now, had confederate shields—though I can’t imagine where you even got wall paper like that in 1977 when he was born.  My crib was between two windows.  

When I got older they moved me across the hall, where the curtains where filmy and pale yellow and my bed had drawers beneath it the perfect size for our neighbor, Mikey.  

I left the yellow room for the pink room next door, the guest room that doubled as my grandmother’s when she came to stay.  It seemed so pristine and careful, like an etiquette book, until I moved in and put stickers on mirrors and posters on doors and didn’t like it anymore.  The pink wall paper sprang maze-like up to the ceiling.

My mother refurnished the attic for me when I was a little older.  I had a dream the doors to the eaves sprang open and never slept up there again.  In the end, I moved back to where I came from—my brother’s room, painting over his black teenage angst with forget-me-not-blue and stringing up beads and Beatles posters.  Looking back, I should have realized I would like moving so much.  

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