Tucked into the back of my room is a quirk they added when building my house, a cubby hole. When imagining childhood, happiness, and safety, this place is always the first to come to mind. It’s also that one place I don’t dare touch when redecorating because of my fear of crushing my mother’s heart. As a little girl, I remember watching my mom stencil intricate flowers and grass to the walls and a baby blue sky with sporadically placed clouds to the ceiling. I hoped to learn to do something artistic like her. I remember lying on the floor listening to the muted voices and footsteps below me. I would stretch my arms out and run my fingers through the yarn rug’s strands, separating them as if I were a human comb. I still go in that room and placed my feet on the short ceiling, playing back memories behind my eyes like videos. On the floor is a chalkboard, still containing a drawing I never bothered to erase, a frozen memory. Who knew one room could be a friend, always there as a place of shelter, quiet, and thought? It was somewhere I could think of anything and everything that there is to think about. So all in all, I really do owe a lot to this room.