That Room

            “What are you doing?”

            I look into my brother’s room. He’s sitting on the bed, a bowl of hot cheetos in hand. The T.V is blaring one of my favorite movies, The Perfect Storm. The room smells just like my brother, a mixture of cologne and dryer sheets. Oddly enough, it is one of my favorite smells. I snap out of my trance and look around the room. Brown. Almost everything in the room is brown, a soft brown like the color of our eyes. I climb onto the bed and I am instantly engrossed by the movie. It is not a hard task to occupy my seven-year-old mind. I grab some Cheetos and take a couple of bites. Before I know it, we are talking and laughing, completely oblivious to the movie in the background.

            I knew this day would eventually have to come; the day my brother moves out, leaving only an empty room full of memories behind. Leaving me to conquer the world all on my own.

            “Hey Grandma, do you need help unpacking your stuff?”

            “No, but come here for a second.”

            I walk into Grandma’s new room, which was also my brother’s old room. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of lavender and fresh flowers. It smells exactly like the perfume Grandma has been wearing for years. It seems Grandma also decided to get rid of all the brown and replace it with her favorite shade of purple.  Grandma pulls out a huge chest. Being only thirteen, I’m very curious to know what is inside. She opens it up and I see that there is a ton of photographs in there, photographs of my mom. I can tell that these are old-timey photographs, the kind you would see in a 1970’s movie.  We sit down on the bed and pick through the pictures, and for every picture Grandma has a wonderfully elaborate story to go along with it. I learn all sorts of new things about my mom, some things I wish I never found out about. We sit on the bed for over an hour, just talking and looking through the dozens of photographs. I don’t even mind that I just wasted my whole day with Grandma; because no day spent making memories is actually wasted.

            I dreaded the day Grandma was moving out. It seems like she came in one day, then she was gone the next. The only things of significance that she left behind were memories. She took everything else and headed back to Texas, taking a piece of my heart along with her.

“Mom! Would you please help me move my stuff into that room?”

            Being sixteen is tough, especially when everyone expects you to do everything on your own. I struggle to walk down the stairs, arms full of my most prized possessions. I successfully make it to my new room. Mhm. Cologne, dryer sheets, lavender, flowers. It smells exactly like it did when it belonged to my brother, and then Grandma. Soon the scent and colors will change to match my personality; vanilla and blue.

 I set my things down on the bed and smile to myself. All of the memories from this room suddenly come rushing back to me, the late nights, the early mornings, the fights, the long talks; everything.

The colors of the room have changed. The fragrance of the room has changed.  The people that lived in that room have also changed. The room itself has stayed the same, and the memories I have in that room will stay with me for the rest of my life. One day, probably sooner than I realize, I’ll move away to college. My little sister will be able to move into that room. I hope that she’ll be able to make just as many great memories in that room as I have.