My room looks almost exactly the same as it did when I was ten years old. Posters have gone up and come down, but the wallpaper has remained. Pictures of family and friends have been added and moved around, but the photo board is still there. And my ever growing collection of books is a little bigger and a bit dustier, but my eyes can still find their way to the section of my shelf where my sixth grade summer reading books sit.
I know this isn't a forever thing. Eventually, this room, like the years that are represented here, will be a memory. But for now, I sit on my bed with my eyes closed. This is my first time home this summer. I can hear the sound of the neighbor mowing the lawn, kids playing down the street, and I am transported back to a time gone by. I am a kid on summer break. My world, once again, is swim team and writing camp, pool days, evenings at the drive-in, cookouts and sleepovers, family vacations at the lake, hide and seek with the neighbors around the cul-de-sac, and my parents calling us in for dinner.
I can hear the sound of my siblings and cousins giggling and splashing in the pool at my grandparents house, the smell of burgers on the grill, my uncle announcing the food is ready. We take turns standing at the screen door until our bathing suits are no longer dripping and we can make our way inside to change for dinner. And of course, there were the kinds of squabbles that come with having a family as close as ours, with cousins all around the same age. Mostly, though, I remember the joy.
I hear the key turn in the front door and open my eyes. This room is no longer mine the way it used to be. I've become a visitor, here only for a short while, in town for a family wedding. Last night I spent time catching up with my cousins and earlier today I had lunch with my mom, aunts, uncle, and grandparents.
We all wear the years a little differently. There is a little more wisdom, a few more wrinkles, more life experience, and a deeper knowledge of loss and grief that come with lives lived fully. Each of us is an owner of our own story, but uniquely part of each other's. And as we sit around the table, I still see the same joy that I knew in my childhood. A little softer, a little more worn, but still as present as ever. The kind that comes with the wisdom of knowing tomorrow isn't promised the way this moment here and now is.
I am thankful now in a way I didn't know how to be back then. I spend a little extra time remembering yesterday and today, moments I somehow already feel nostalgic about...
Have a Happy Friday and a wonderful weekend! Love y'all!
Xo,
Lauren
