“Hi Jeffrey, just leaving you a message that I am about an hour-and-a-half away from Mom’s house. I was planning to meet you and Sarah at the house but I was called into a meeting last second. Hopefully, I can see you both before I leave town tomorrow. Alright, just leave the keys in the usual spot, under the lawn gnome near Mom’s old vegetable garden. Love you, bye”

Stopped at the intersection between Halsey Lane and Brooks Street, I nervously swiped through the color-organized applications on my phone. I leaned my chest against the steering wheel as I gazed down the street, my heart beginning to pound against the black leather. My thoughts grew louder as I drove closer to my childhood house. I could see the familiar bright red mailbox peering around the others on the lane due to its poorly done installation, part in which I blame my brother. I guess over the last few months, after Mom’s passing, the erosion exaggerated its tilt. I parked parallel to the sidewalk that bursted with weeds and overgrown grass. I assumed that both Sarah and Jeffrey probably forgot to leave any storage boxes for me so I came prepared with my own. As I placed my briefcase on the passenger seat, next to my freshly dry cleaned cashmere sweaters, I reached down to grab an old UPS cardboard box. Closing the car door behind me, I noticed crumbs from the Nutrigrain bar I had nibbled on while driving. I dusted them off from my navy linen work suit onto the cement pavement before locking the car. The rhythm of my stiletto heels against the bluestone pathway as I approached my childhood house mirrored that of my heart. Each step closer to my house brought me one step closer to my hindered past. As I rotated the squeaky brass doorknob, I could almost see the five of us sitting around the table inside, as if the memory itself was enclosed within the two-story colonial home. As I opened the door, the illuminating 5 pm rays persisted behind me, gliding along the oak stained floors to create a narrow path into the house.

Shutting the door behind me, I quickly noticed a pungent smell drifting through the thin and empty air. Before I followed it, I rested my shoes neatly along the wall and placed the cardboard box beside the disintegrating poinsettia on the table. The scent was almost sour, like the smell of expired milk, leading me to the kitchen in the back of the house. It was of no surprise that the scent was coming from a bowl of yogurt and fruit, Sarah’s favorite snack. It was typical of her to aimlessly leave out her food for someone to clean up after her. I quickly dumped the leftover yogurt and washed the dishes before I could explore the house. As I let the cool water pour down onto the familiar porcelain bowls, I reached for the dish soap perched along the window frame. My manicured fingers pressed down on the lavender scented dish soap that my mom used to buy in bulk from Costco. It was her favorite. As I watched the glistening soap bubbles rise from the sink, each one being illuminated by the golden sun rays, I was transported back to my adolescence. After every dinner, I would carry both Jeffrey and Sarah’s dishes and silverware to the kitchen as my mom would take them upstairs to get ready for bed. Left alone for my imagination to wander, I would admire the iridescent bubbles floating above my head until they no longer existed as they hit the hovering cabinets above me. I found tranquility as I followed their short, yet beautiful journey upwards.

Walking slowly back towards the entryway, the withered orchids and poinsettias that once filled the house with beautiful aromas came back to life as my memories engulfed my sight. My mind, overwhelmed with laughter and heartache, transported me to the dining room. As my feet stood still against the balding rug that covered the wooden floors, I visualized my feet sinking into the plush red texture. Closing my eyes, the silence escaped me and filled the room with a looming presence. My hands gripped the crisp corners of the cardboard box as I listened to the beat of my heart pounding against my rib cage. Squeezing my eyes tight as a tear dripped down my face, leaving a trail through my rouge blush, pain and heartache evoked the memories of my first Christmas dinner without Dad. I remembered the odd feeling as I noticed that the chair at the head of the table was pushed back against the wall. My mother told me to take a seat next to her as she called Sarah and Jeffrey down to eat. Our hands folded before us, we prayed before our meal. Only 13 years old at the time, the intense emotions that reverberated through my body at that exact moment persisted to be reawakened 22 years later.

Distraught with remembrances that I locked away, I followed the stream of golden light that elongated the hallway filled with family photographs, awards, and portraits. The few photographs of me and my diploma stood unaccompanied by the other photographs of my siblings. Compared to the rambunctious and candid nature of my siblings’ mementos, following in chronological order of their growth, my photographs mirrored one another. In each photo, my soft smile blended into the edges of my face against the white backdrop as my hair fell perfectly in curls against my canary yellow polo. My glassy hazel eyes reflected the flash of the camera, intensifying the external beauty of my gaze, while internally displaying my bottled up pain. These photographs lined the wall parallel to my father’s old study, in which my siblings and I rarely entered after his death. My curiosity provoked my actions as I stepped foot into the wood-paneled study. My hand skimmed along the handcrafted desk, causing dust particles to swirl up through the air. I breathed in the pungent smell of old wood. Illuminated by the desk light, my mother had sat where my father used to, as she signed bills and organized the taxes. As I watched the stack of papers on the table grow, I gazed up at the clock that read 2:30 am. I had always wondered why she slept through breakfast every morning, relying on me to take my siblings to school, but now I understood. Continuing to watch her work persistently into the late hours of the night, my lips began to taste the salty tears that ran down my face.

Wiping away my tears, I exited the study and headed towards the second floor. As my hand began to glide up the railing, I visualized my 16-year-old-self sitting at the top of the staircase waiting for Mom to help me put on my homecoming dress. I watched as I tapped my foot in the same rhythmic pattern I do 22 years later when my patience begins to wire out. As I turned around, I saw my mom grasp the bottom of the railing when all of a sudden her attention was needed elsewhere as little 8-year-old Sarah knocked her dinner off the table. Taking my last step on the stairs, I watched my 16-year-old-self hold back her anger, yelling “nevermind, I got it Mom!” as she headed towards her bedroom. Following her, I looked at my bedroom door that still had the handmade sign that read “please knock before entering” placed in the center of the door. My stomach clenched as I remembered the internal pain and stress that was concealed behind a soft smile as I left my room every day. Stepping into my refuge, the fresh scent of dove aerosol drifted past my nose. Everything in the room was left in perfect order. My Revlon makeup collection still remained in perfect alignment on top of the white wicker vanity. The walls, clear of any obvious markings, had few posters and images hung up to ensure an organized appearance. As I sat on my plush bed glancing around the blank walls, I quickly remembered my small, hidden secret.

Pulling my bed frame away from the wall, my small hidden mural was revealed. Trapped behind the comfort of my neatly tucked saffron bed, a beautiful chaos of color, words, and scribbles crawled horizontally along the wall. Each mark encapsulated the bottled up fears, emotions, and pains of my upbringing. Hidden from the perfection of my room, the reckless expressions that emblazoned the dove white acrylic paint embodied my true, secret self. The box of colored pencils, markers, and paint rested in the corner of the wall, just where I had hid it years ago before I moved out. Running my fingers over the drawings, I could feel the frustration and pain of my adolescent-self cultivating within my physical present form.

From the very moment I sat next to my mother on the first Christmas without my father, I took it upon myself to act as the role model for my younger siblings and to support Mom. Growing up, my emotions seemed too much of a burden to entrench upon my mother as she struggled to successfully support our single parent household. Due to this, I created for myself an encapsulating jar in which my emotions could not escape. As I walked towards my vanity, I reflected upon my image today. Standing still, hair and makeup still perfectly intact from my meeting, I stared into my soul through my saddened eyes. Untucking the navy buttons that lined my perfectly hemmed blazer that hugged my figure, I threw the jacket onto the disarrayed bed. Grabbing my favorite old lavender scrunchy from my bedside table, I tied my hair into a messy bun. I picked up my box of art supplies that were trapped behind my bed for the past 16 years and placed it on top of my vanity. Opening my closet, I separated the color organized, ironed blouses and sweaters to reveal a blank wall that awaited to be marked. As I began to mark up the wall, I found it difficult to express myself; but with time, my hands guided my mind through an emotional catharsis. My internal fears and aspirations, repressed over many years, took form onto the blank canvas as I inscribed a map of my life and unpredictable future. Leaving the clothing separated, I stepped back from my mural and admired its true beauty: the beauty of my flaws and imperfections.