The room with the crayon wallpaper. The first room I’ve ever known as “my own,” (It wasn't actually my own I shared it with my older sister), was the one my grandparents had set up for us while my parents where going through a divorce. The bottom half of the wall was a crayon wallpaper, and the top half was a cheery yellow.  Black metal bunk beds, with screws painted white so we wouldn't hit our heads on them. were pushed to the corner.The bottom bunk had a pink magic bumper, a device placed on either side of a bed from to keep me rolling off while sleeping. Glow in the dark stars plastered on the blue ceiling imitated the night sky. My Grandparents made everything perfect. The room held everything that we needed and then some. The fact that they spent the time and money to that extent told us how much my grandparents cared. That’s when I first learned that you can say “I love you” without a single word passing through one's lips.

The room with the jars filled with buttons. All organized meticulously by color, shape,size and every other factor one could think of. In this room, cloth was cut and strung together by endless whirling spools of thread, making “ click clacks” as the needle dropped. It always smelled like crayons, which made sense because simple craft and coloring supplies were kept in the closet of this room.  It was in this room that I was taught that sports aren't everything. The room opened my eyes to the fact that being creative was okay, more is okay.

The room with the stuffed mouse dressed like a chef. Standing tall next to the cabinet that held the bowls only used for when the aroma of lemon, rice and chicken wafted through the old house. The recipe to this most precious meal was kept along with the cookie tins from different places and lifetimes that lined the top shelves.  The recipe was just as old as the tins, passed through generation and generation of women. As I was taught the recipe that I would one day know like the back of my hand, I was also taught how to stay connected to my roots. A dinner table a glimpse into the past, a Family tree and a way to mend a lousy day all in one.

These past few years have been hard. My grandma is still physically here but has been long gone mentally. She was placed in hospice care, and because of this, my grandad no longer needed so much space. He sold the first home I’ve ever known. I will never see the rooms in which she taught me so many things again.  But this is the time I learn to let go, that things won’t always stay the same. But this is also the time that I figured out that I’m actually okay that my grandad sold the house. He sold it to a family with two children younger than I was when I first stepped foot into the home … I’m sorry. I meant the house. I’m okay with calling it the house. It’s their turn to make the memories, learn the lessons, turn the house into a home. The one thing I do know, is that it’ll all start in the room with the crayon wallpaper.