Even though it isn’t quite the definition of a childhood bedroom, since I moved in here when I was 9, I still enjoy the visits. The viciousness of the teenage years has disappeared into the ether and is replaced with this nostalgia for the dreams and hopes that I once had.
Each shelf and drawer holds a memory caught in time. The spiral of key chains when I thought that I was going to be a key chain collector. The small album of wallet photos with fashion photography once the rage of teenagers, especially Asian Americans in love with the soft glow of professional photography. The cassette tapes collected in a crate, probably once played, purchased for the purposes of seeming cool. The former bathroom cases from college when showers were shared and not stationary. The computer parts that I had collected over time. And so much more.
I sit on my bed, but it’s the mattress purchased during college on a frame from my grandmother’s house, because she couldn’t take a bed that was too high off the ground. And a clock on the wall that has been stuck on the same time for ears. Because who reads an analog clock anyway when a laptop and mobile devices are so close?