There is something that is slightly out of the ordinary about being home. See, my parents have lived in this house since I was about 8, so most of my life (excluding college and on) was spent here. The bed I’m sleeping in, tonight, is the bed I’ve had since I was 4. On the closet door, are the height marks to measure my growth, starting at age 8. In both beroom closets is the crap that I’ve managed to accumulate since day one. My first and second pair of figure skates, first pair of hockey skates, etc. etc. Today, first thing I did was drag out my athletic awards box. I’ve got my basketball, volleyball and soccer trophies in it. Just odd, digging through this box and seeing every single achievement I’ve made. Texas Academic Achievement awards, Blue Ribbon scholar awards for languages and science, Language Olympic awards for French and German, and every single ribbon from gymnastics – labelled with event, score, date and level. Including the ones from Illinois. The good part, is that my mum has never had time to go through any of these boxes to find my journals. They are now back in my possession, to be burned at home. Years of my life that no longer exist in anything but memories. It’s strange now. My brother and I, relegated to bookshelves and locked closests. Although, it is funny to look up at the bookshelf in here, and see the buttons of me and my brother, a baseball picture when I was 7, soccer picture when I was 5, and my brother on ice – age 13. Wow. It’s strange what my mum has left up. The lightswitch is still the teddy bear plate I painted when I was 6, the surprised expression of someone flipping its belly still on the face. And my psycho-goth wallpaper, in the office, black background with gold, platinum and silver glitter splatter-painted across the vinyl. As much as she hated putting that paper in there, I don’t think she’ll ever take it down. In fact, she’s bough dark-wooded dressers and nighttables to match the tone. I think I imprinted on her.