The time capsule phenomenon of revisiting a childhood bedroom in adulthood is a fascinating concept, yet alien actuality in our household.
My husband’s childhood home burned down...on our anniversary...early in our marriage when we were still just kids ourselves.
And my parents moved shortly after my high school graduation, but I had had 8 different bedrooms (6 that I can clearly remember) up to that point anyway.
And so, the potential of being able to step across time through the threshold of my adolescence, perfectly preserved in an attempt to rediscover the core person that I was and so shall evermore be at my very heart, is oh, so elusive and I occasionally find myself filled with envy when it flickers across my screen as a storytelling device.
But they’re only stories. Myth manifested by imagination. Much like the memories sifted through rose colored, nostalgic filters, filling those nonexistent rooms of my far gone past.
This, this photo, of how my sister “shared” the bed. And that precariously protruding toe that always managed to find its target with missile-like precision is the reality. I didn’t share with her for very long before the bedrooms were again, rearranged.
This photo, procured on my 110 camera was the photographic evidence as to why an immediate reshuffling was required.
Note: The blazing camera flash through the pitch darkness didn’t even cause her to alter her course of attack!