White. A blank space.
When I was born my parents decided to sponge paint my room. Pink, purple, blue, and green in soft pastels swirled around my childhood.
When I was 5 years old, my family moved into a new house. My room was painted light pink, so light pink that in certain sunshiny afternoons, it looked white. My mom loved it, I didn’t.
Sometime, between the ages of 5-10, my nanny, Joanne, painted flowers on my wall. It was my own personal garden, which I loved more than anything. At 9 Joanne left to go back to England. I missed her so much, she was the big sister I never had.
When I was 10, I kicked my baby sister out of my room and decided I wanted to paint it dark purple. My mom decided to paint it lavender. As I grabbed the paintbrush, I remember being really sad having to paint over Joanne’s flowers. I didn’t like the purple we painted my room, it gave me a busy, crowded feeling, and nothing matched.
Freshman year I painted my room light blue and it turn out to be similar to the light pink. I didn’t like it.
Junior year my house was undergoing a mini makeover, redoing the bathrooms, floors, and paint jobs. This time, I paint a huge chunk of different shades of blue, carefully deciding which one was my favorite. I choose a sky blue, that made my room feel as if I was on a beach 24/7.
It was mine. It was me.
