Childhood Room


Butterfly stickers.

At the time, I thought they were the most important things in the world.
To have on my yellow walls, at least.
The purple and green stickers were picked up at a Michael’s. Or a Target, or a Walmart. I thought they were beautiful. At the age of five, they seemed elegant. Sophisticated. Classy. The butterflies, with no faces, looked happy. And what matches yellow better than purple and green? So up on my walls they went, displayed around my bed fit in the corner.

The stickers, likely no more than five dollars, had corners peeling off the walls. The stickers, which I so often traced with my fingers, had colors fading quickly. The stickers, placed sloppily by the hands of a child, had bubbles forming within them. I loved them dearly.

One day, these butterfly stickers would be peeled off. I would soon have a little sister, and she needed a room. The yellow room with the stickers on the walls. I was excited to have a little sister. I was not as excited to leave my room. My room, with yellows and purples and greens and pinks. I would now share a room with the eldest sister. She didn’t have stickers on her walls.

I think about those stickers often. They were thrown away. The yellow walls they -- and I -- called home have now been painted grey.

I was a kid who lived in yellows and purples and greens and pinks. I wanted to be a fashion designer. I was loud, but well-behaved. I was bossy more often than not. I wore tutus and striped socks. I was dramatic.

My childhood was a good one. Quiet a wonderful one, actually. It was filled with magic. I was loved, and cared for, and deeply known. But I don’t live in the same colors anymore. I no longer want to be a fashion designer. I am no longer loud, but I am still well-behaved. I am no longer bossy, and I no longer own tutus. I no longer like butterfly stickers.