A cowboy hat hangs upside-down from the end of a curtain rod, holding countless, unparalleled memories of the teenage adventure of a lifetime.
The outline of a vintage picture frame draped in pearls houses a string of moments frozen in time.
A waterfall of twinkling white lights laces the windows and runs down the wall, emanating the beauty of Christmas on a still summer night.
Tassels from high school graduation; flowers from an unsought love shriveled by the power of time; maps of wandering destinations near and far; greeting cards from birthdays, holidays, and just because days; pages torn out of coloring books brought to life by childhood friends; ticket stubs from concerts and movies and fairs and sporting events stuffed like sardines in a mason jar—the memories they hold running together like watercolor paints; empty tomato soup cans housing paint brushes, writing utensils, scissors, and rulers; license plates from various states and decades; half-finished crafty Christmas presents; a patchwork quilt hand-sewn by my beautiful mother; an eclectic assortment of novels, biographies, poetry, and picture books; hundreds of pennies multiplying like bunnies in a mason jar; timeless photographs of Marilyn, and one very iconic kiss.
The things that cover my walls and stock my shelves tell the story of my existence. I am five years old and I wear the size seven and a half shoes of a twenty year old; I read classic novels and children’s books; I have been as far as Cancun without even leaving my bedroom. I am both old and new, borrowed and blue. I now own more hoodies that used to live in the closets of my closest friends than those that belonged to me to begin with.
If I never complain about anything ever again, it will be one time too many.
realidream 