A white door leading into a white painted room. Brown carpet littered with dirty clothes and textbooks that wouldn’t fit on a bright white bookcase. On the shelves lay books from my childhood and books I have read recently and books I have yet to read. Around the books are a collection of memories: a harmonica John Popper from Blues Traveler gave me, a Mason Jar with Doctor Who sonic screwdrivers, a playbills from the first play I trully stage managed, and a plastic glass slipper from one of my favorite plays I have ever worked on. Stringing across the same wall my bookshelf is on are photos hanging from a string of fairy lights.
There is a wall with a large window looking out over the woods I call my backyard. Dark brown curtains cover the large window hiding a green and red cactus named Prick and a small air plant named Tim. Up against the window is a white, cast iron bed. That is where warmth is and happiness. Blue and tan sheets and comforter lay atop a lavender scented mattress; twelve blankets are bundled together on the top of the sheets. Woven into the headboard is more photos hung on fairy lights.
On either side of bed are two nightstands. One has a silver lamp that looks like the lamp in Pixar that I had bought for that soul purpose. Next to the lamp is a small mirror which I wrote “You are lovely” on. On the other night stand is a collection of candles. The smells of flowers, pumpkin, Gandalf’s pipe, and apple flow through my room when lit. Above that second night stand, across from my bookshelves, is a large picture of actress Audrey Hepburn. She hangs there you watch over my room every day and every night. At the other end of the wall is a poster of a knight hanging his head in shame just above my desk.
Lastly, my desk. A bright blue wooden desk covered in old papers, scraps of writing, magazines, and pens. My desk is where creativity is set into motion. My desk is where those late night poems and dreams are written into being. My desk is where I start projects and complete them. It is a sacred space for my imagination to roam free into notebooks that lay in front of me. Pages torn from old spirals and composition notebooks painted with doodles of a stick figure I named Joe and my rants about the world we are living in.
We have come full circle and back to the white door hiding the white painted walls. The brown colored carpet remains littered with dirty clothes and my bed is covered in a bundle of blankets. My room is my imagination, thoughts, dreams, my safe space. This is my room.
It’s the color red that flows through my mother’s graying hair. It’s the white paint covering the once green and purple walls. The dark brown covering the emotion from inside my sister and father. The red, fiery ringlets twisting my mind in my youngest sister’s hair. The teal fish tattooed into my dad’s rough skin. It is the black and white photos of my childhood covering the bland, white walls of my house. It is the coloring of my house that I live.
One night, about 17 years ago or so, my mom and dad were sat in a bar with my dad’s best friend and his girlfriend. Every name that my mom had come up with, my dad didn’t like and every name my dad liked, my mom didn’t. As the four young adults sat in a booth at a local bar, a familiar tune played through the air. “Allison… I know this world is killing you. Oh- Allison.” My mom turned to my dad saying, “What about Allyson?” After eight months of indecision, the name for their first daughter was chosen. Adding a middle name as old as the start of my mother’s family and the song title about a girl with a troubled life, the name Allyson Lea Crown was created.
I remember this moment as if it had happened five minutes ago. I had walked into the large, wooden, double doors of House of Blues, and was met by a loud rock band on stage. The walkway was filled with teenagers and tipsy adults. It was dark, but the flashing lights lit my way. I kept checking down at my phone to see if she had texted me, but I realized I had lost service.
My two friends, sister, and dad had faded away when I heard my name. The voice I had only heard in videos on Instagram or over video chat. I looked around the crowded area and my vision grew blurry from tears. Everyone and everything faded away around me as my eyes landed on her. I felt my knees grow weak as I took the three steps to meet her. I fell into her open arms as she fell into mine. I had envisioned this moment for the past three years. I pictured every word I ever wanted to say to her. But in that moment, all words abandoned me; all I could say was four little words: “Sierra, I love you.” My chest hurt as I sobbed and gasped for air. All I could think was that…this is the person I told everything to for three years. The only person I felt I could trust. She told me every detail of her life, and I told her every detail of mine. This…person- This incredible human being needed to know how much I loved her — that she was my best friend. And I could tell she thought the same thing.
My friend pulled us from each other as the band on stage was finishing their set. We decided we should find a spot to stand in the crowd and Sierra showed us to a place up front her and her friend were. The two of us cried and cried and cried as we sang along to the bands on stage and danced together. And when it ended, we cried as we had to say goodbye.
That night, on the way home, my throat hurt from the singing and the screaming and the crying. My legs were sore from standing for two hours. My head spun from the noise and the flashing lights. I was exhausted from being awake since 6:30 am and it was almost 2 am. Even though I was in physical pain, I knew this was the happiest I had ever been, and maybe ever will be.