Looking back into my mind I see the reflections of who I used to be.
The painted rooms filled with all I have seen and done.
The childhood room with faded, peeling walls still filled with innocent thoughts.
Looking in is like looking through frosted glass in the clouds.
Occasions of clarity break the visual muffled silence.
Images and pieces of memories still rest neatly on the shelves of my years.
The alley behind our home in Baltimore.
The garden at my grandfather’s home.
The taste of the wooden crib on my newly emerging teeth.
The used and worn but loving gift from a babysitter.
Youth in the next room throwing tantrums and fits, growing.
The room unsettled and littered with deeper closets to explore.
Stains of blood soaked experience and cloudless skies.
First crush, first kiss, first dreams.
Confused sheets half covering long unused thoughts.
Freedom and independence etched on the doorways of each new year.
Mature and jaded rooms added hastily to each passing year.
Dark creaky stairwells to places better off forgotten.
The places one never wishes to visit alone.
Love covers the walls yet fades and crumbles to the floor.
The halls of memories are endless and unsorted.
Pieces of past and present mingle in the air of fading memories.
A room fit for an adult sits incomplete.
The smell of newness confuse the sight of painted over past.
The corners of each turn stained with the finger prints of all my years.
This fragile hold a keep of flesh and bone is my life.