If Walls Could Talk

If walls could talk, quiet moments meant only for you would be witnessed by another. A little girl, playing with her dolls. Acting out the confusing moments that she assumes is just adult behavior. Her voice elevates to just above a whisper to make sure she is still only in her world and not noticed upon the ears of her mother. All the nights with eyes wide open, pretending to be asleep but unable to contain the excitement awaiting her when morning comes. If walls could talk — I could say a lot.

These are some of my most cherished memories. I’ve seen a lot of children grow up in this house on 181 Orange Ave. My wall sits on the right side of the house, a small bedroom usually reserved for the child that draws the short straw. The room that my wall completes is not quite the one in the room across the hall, which is much bigger, but I’m happy with my room. I have witnessed countless precious moments in many young children’s lives. The last person to reside in my room was a little girl. Lily, her name, is inscribed in permanent marker on me, right behind her bedpost. Her mother found it there years later and, surprisedly, left it there. Though I appreciate the removal of the occasional crayon or marker, this inscription never bothered me. I’m hoping I get to keep it for a while longer — but surely the next homeowners will paint over it. But for now, I wear it proudly.

Lily actually chose my room. Perhaps it was the color of my walls, which were left baby pink by the previous resident, who moved out of my room when she was nine. Lily, being four at the time, fell in love with me and my rosy color. Her bed was moved in, a big girl bed she was thrilled to have, and the trail of stickers that adorned her headboard found their way to me. Those early years were filled with many moments that could warm even the coldest hearts. The first time she lost a tooth and put it under her pillow. The jumps for joy when she woke up the next morning to find a dollar. The time she fell asleep on the floor while trying to stay awake to hear Santa in the living room under her floorboards.

But as Lily grew older, life got more complicated. I watched Lily navigate through life’s ups and downs. Those long nights waiting for Santa turned into late nights studying for a test or texting her friends, or perhaps a boy. First love. First heartbreak. Achievements and disappointments. Wins and losses. I saw sides of Lily that no person would ever see. Sides that she hid from everyone else and she would only let free when she was alone, in a space that was sacred. Her parents' divorce took a bigger toll on Lily than her parents realized. Twelve at the time, she understood that she must put on a strong face. Eventually, every other weekend the room was quiet. I began to see Lily’s life in flashes. As she grew, childhood drawings were replaced by posters of bands and celebrities. Late nights were no longer spent in her room, but rather wherever she would go when she would sneak out of her window, down the tree that lives in front of the house.

The summer after her eighteenth birthday, she tidied the room and packed the most important things, the things she couldn’t live without, away in boxes. I only saw her in the summers after that. Every time she would come back a little bit different. Her clothes changed and she became more independent. She often worked a summer job in town that required her to wear a plain uniform. And then, without a warning, she never came back. Her mother would occasionally come into the room to tidy something up or just look around. Sometimes she would come into the room just to lie on the untouched bed. As seasons passed, the colors on the leaves outside the window changed and the house grew more quiet. Eventually, the only noise was made by the occasional critter that found its way into these walls. Then almost suddenly, Lily came back. This time, with a smaller version of herself. This was my room when I was your age, she said, and the little Lily remarked on the pink walls. I was hopeful that I would be filled with life again once more. But they stayed a short time only to move all the furniture from my room, leaving nothing but the name inscribed on my pink paint.

Before long, family after family came and inspected me. They pointed and made comments on things they would change. Ideas about furniture placement. Additions they could make. Walls they could knock down to make more room. Finally, I was painted blue. Pictures of elephants and tigers were hung on me and a crib was placed where Lily’s bed used to be. Before long, a baby boy was introduced to these four walls. A new story began, one that would remain mostly untold. Quiet moments observed only by the walls around him. If walls could talk — I don’t think I’d ever stop telling stories about those moments. But they belong only to me, which is probably better anyway.