Blue phlox. The color of my childhood room.
Not quite purple, not quite blue, and the perfect color for me.
I don’t remember how I decided on the color. I do remember going to Home Depot and getting supplies. Paint. Brushes. Rollers. I remember painting my room by myself, in junior high, and relishing in the sense of accomplishment. I had control over something. I had control over how much paint was on the brush, the way in which the brush applied the paint to the wall, transforming it from hospital white to blue phlox. It was magical.
Even as an adult, walking into my room, long after I had ceased walking into it regularly, the color brought feelings of accomplishment. I did it! I painted my whole room myself. Small victory.
Now, that room is no longer mine. It is difficult to fathom I will not walk into that room again. I can still picture it, with the black bookcase at one end, its glass doors holding its own against shelves bursting with books stacked three rows deep. My bed is at the other end, the first thing you see when you turn the corner from the stairs and glance through the open door to my room. Its black and white comforter neatly displayed, and the extra blanket folded nicely at the bottom. A picture of the Chicago skyline at sunset hangs above the head of the bed. The dresser covered in items from years of “I’ll do it later,” and its drawers stuff with clothes long forgotten, lines one wall, facing an image of an open road leading to sunset, with “Goals” and a saying along the bottom.
Now, the pictures, bookcase, bed, and dresser have been removed.
Now, that room belongs to someone else, and I wonder if they will paint over it. I wonder what color they will choose, and if they will feel that same sense of accomplishment when finished.