In the bigger home, the downstairs bedroom is baby blue, still.
The walls are scarred and worn. The holes and scratches reveal the life that has been taking place in here. Some of the holes are from anger. Others are from wear. Still other marks are from the constant jostling and rubbing. The baby blue is hidden by dirt or scuff marks from the increasingly larger and larger shoes banging against the walls before they land in the bin. In some places, the holes are from the poor craftsmanship of an eager parent. The walls really do talk.
Before the bigger home with the bigger rooms, there was another place. I remember looking at the old place for the last time. The room was a little darker, brightened only by the incandescent light being diffused through the thin, white glass cover.
It was in this room that the life was founded. Inspired by hormones and wishful desire, aided by ignorance and poor planning.
I see an image of this older home. In this picture the walls are green. I know of a paint color called “Robin Hood Green,” but that may not be the color that covers the walls. I'd like to think that's what it is. “Robin Hood Green” seems like a very aspirational color for young, idealistic parents to choose for a young boy. The carpet is a very intentional shade of beige. The fabric is flecked with dark spots, and the curls are tight and close together. It is stain proof and durable. This home is not furnished for the adults who live here. We just borrow the furniture from him, and we are allowed to sleep in his living room. The two exceptions being the gaudy retro turquoise paint in the main room, and the throwback silver wallpaper in the bathroom. There is one room, so we sleep in a wallbed. The Seattle city skyline springs up in front of us, filling the entire pane of the plate glass windows.
After we had finished all the final packing, the 600 sq ft seemed cavernous. The sounds bounced off the walls. We looked at the bedroom one last time. There were tiny compressed areas of carpet where the legs of the bed once stood. I burst into tears. I still can see that picture of us laying on either side of him. I can see the shining apple cheeks, and the strawberry blond hair, stolen from my mother and my uncle.
We aren't in that room anymore, but it isn't empty.
In the bigger home, the footsteps evolved from the rapid tap, tap, tap of a youthful tornado, to the defiant stomps of the newly independent, to the heavy thump of the awkward teen. Now the footsteps remain silent for hours at a time while the young mind whirs. The footsteps are often absent from dark until dark. The bedroom door covered in colorful stickers advertising moments in the life of the child. From time to time, walking in the yard, you will discover the buried knives and forks. They may yet serve as evidence to convict the imaginative young thief.
Though I see what appears to be a man's mind in a man's body, I also see all of the tragic,the triumphant, the mundane, and the exhilarating moments of the boy. Despite never listening, it seems he heard, “Be original and useful, and leave things better than when you got there.”
I suppose it's common for every parent to feel as if they fail daily. Yet in spite of, and because of these failures, I am left thinking that this is what it feels like to have done something good and right.
Standing in the doorway of the room, it is littered now with wrappers, and school books. The floor is a foaming sea of dirty clothes, and the pungent odor of a young man permeates the air.
One day soon, all of these things will be gone, and you might only be able to see the walls and the floor. Maybe the echo will remind me of how I am always just a little bit behind the boy. The walls in the downstairs baby blue bedroom will vibrate only with the past. One day the bigger home will be brought down and replaced, but there will never be emptiness in the still baby blue room.
11:40 AM PT: Thanks. I just noticed that my most frequently used tag is "rescued." You guys are the best.