My bedroom is like a little art exhibit of all my memories–and my laundry... 

First display: a wall with  photos. The wall is covered with hundreds of pictures from my favorite TV shows, books, and my favorite actors. My friends, family, and my dog are all featured on the walls. 

Second display: my dresser. My dresser is topped with a variety of tiny and tall trinkets I’ve made over the years. Pinch pots from preschool and my jewelry that lies in bowls and stands I’ve made from pottery camps over the years. A painted dinosaur figurine from last Christmas. The drawers of my dresser remain open as they are stuffed with t-shirts from school, soccer jerseys from middle school, and socks from each christmas. 

Third display: my desk. My desk is evidence of the crafts and creations I’ve made growing up. Nail polish and markers stain my desk. And bubbled up fake wood remains from the acetone I spilled. There are cuts along my desk from the days I was too lazy to get a cutting board for my art projects. And between the pencil cups and picture frames you’ll still find scattered beads from my jewelry making days. 

My room is a timeline. A documentation of my interests, activities, and friends through the years. And the memories lying out aren’t the only ones in my room. My best memories, my worst memories, are all tucked away in a little box I bought years ago.

The fourth display: the box. The box I bought years ago with a bit of birthday money from my grandparents.  The box with ticket stubs and receipts. Notebooks that are filled with messy writing and tear stains from the best days and the worst days. Hotel cards from vacations I’ve taken. And wristbands from concerts, events, and visits to places all over. Notecards lie around the box with scribbled out recipes from me, or from others. The recipes that I need to make again, and the recipes that I need to fix. The box holds letters that I’ve never sent, and letters that I’ve received. Birthday cards with particularly long notes, and notes from middle school teachers telling me I’d go far. The box is filled with hope. Hope for good days and hope that I’ll get through the bad. The box had passwords. Passwords of every account I’ve made. Passwords of each and every email I’ve made. Passwords for the online stores. In the box is a yellow pocket notebook filled with words and symbols from when my brothers and I tried to create a secret language. 

My room holds me. The exhibit of Ava. And it’s funny to think that one day my room will belong to someone else. And the story of them will live in that room. Will live on the walls, and in the drawers of their dresser. But until then, my room remains my little art exhibit.