The Room at the Hall's End

January 14, 2010
I walked into a ghost town last night.
There was dust on the lightswitch,
and the floor boards under my feet screamed as I stepped forward.
I could tell long ago it was quite a place,
home to peculiar characters and their possessions.
Now—simply an empty home of memories:
the birthday celebrations in the kitchen, the high-pitched whispers of sleepovers in the basement, the smile of love left in the walls.
But then I encountered a room at the hall’s end,
approaching it cautiously,
knowing that if I did not venture forth I would regret it.
And so I opened the portal, nearly falling backwards from the impact.
Suddenly I took it in, an injection of memories, as sharp and unfamiliar as baby’s first breath…
and somehow I knew this room was mine.
And like that recollections I didn’t know existed flooded my mind’s empty space.
They built on top of each other, brick by brick, and weighing my fragile mind down.
I saw myself—my five year old self searching the closet for monsters,

my ten year old self reading chapter books with a flashlight,

my eighteen year old self sneaking out the window.
The room swirled with these connections, warping around me and blending my memories.
Had I done it?
Had I overcome this unspeakable disability,
which has kept me captive for all these years?
I think so. I think finally I am free to remember.

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