where childhood memories are This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

I imagine a time in my life when the momentum is over and only memories reign. That time when the knuckle-cracking, mind-boggling days are over. That time when my life revolves on the rocking chair, the uncanny penmanship, the messy ink, and the crisp white paper on the table.

I imagine myself rocking back and forth, listening to a new generation of music: the symphonic creaking of the rocking chair- after reliving the chapters of my life by blotting untidy words on clean, fresh paper. And I would have written about my old room, though I'm unsure if I really will, but for now, I decide that my scrawny, wrinkled, 70-year-old fingers ached themselves to that dangling chandelier of my life that forever lights my self as a person, as being here.

I would have described it as nothing luxe, nothing sophisticated. Just an unnecessary extension of the master's bedroom that was finished with an odd, flimsy back-wall of a staircase on its left that often was a nuisance when room boarders flocked in to do their nightly rendezvous upstairs.

I would remember its wooden divider, it's hollowness and weak foundation that sunders my world from my parents, that kept the truth of my being to myself, that kept my agony and secret joys to my own knowing. I would also remember the mini-library on the divider's far right that stacked books of unnecessary wisdom and ignored worth.

I'd remember my two drawers and how I've made them a dysfunctional accessory of my room. Forcefully stuffing about a hundred (or probably more) clothes, shorts, skirts, and whimsical hosieries all together. And I'll pity my red drawer for turning its last two boxes into my art and bag storage.

I'll write about my bed that was perfectly and imperfectly placed under a privacy-invading window that often gathered unwelcome hello's and nuisance. And I don't think I'll ever forget, even with Alzheimer's and all, those termites of unquestionable kind and severity that marred my ceiling like dead, rotting stars on a gloomy, disgustingly brownish night. Or the way it can connect and create poorly carbon-copied constellations.

Those incessant, pestering dusts that stack heap upon heaps on my books and sunglasses like algae on an untouched swamp will often cross my memory lane. And so will this phrase since I've just exaggerated.

There will always be a place in my memory for my linoleum flooring and its alternating wooden panel design that would be partially torn by my bed every time I change the sheets. And I will have a place for my multi-functional desk, the red bible with onion-skin thin pages and missing spine, and those many educational and heart-warming gifts (books still).

Above all, I will write about myself and how I've tried to grow up in that room as a civilized woman of a ruined democracy, or as an unequally liberated artist, or as an austerely old widower who has ceased dreams and ruminations, who has all forgotten life and what it's worth and how worthy is the now, and continue recalling that room where she remembered herself as a free-spirited dreamer who never dreamed of a rocking chair and a farewell.





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