*a poem by Deborah Garrison, more about Garrison on Wiki, linked below with a few of my comments.
My childhood room,
hippie flowered spread folded down
at the single pillow,
wood dresser with battered corners
breathing out
scents of other rooms;
owlish bedside clock whose
trusting face met mine
as it shirred the seconds; fearsome
length of the closet, holding
silence, its sliding panels
overlapping slightly,
like sisters, and brother window
at whose sill I pressed my case on stars
in the night’s steep middle.
Then the wee hours
awake in bed,
rocking and meditating,
strangely blissful loneliness
and insomnia, the sound of my own
humming and the house ticking,
the first tears after
the first death—
I’ll never
go back there.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deborah_Garrison Unlike Ms. Garrison, I have no problem thinking joyfully about being back my childhood room; I’d love to be back there, although, to be sure, not as a child or half-adult (eighteen to twenty-five!). Our youthful bedrooms are storage units of pleasure, pain, wonder, and mystery and – for many – locked, done with, ignored, forgotten, long buried. Like looking at childhood photos, so much can and is revealed by where a child’s bedroom is or was, which sibling got which room, which roomed together, which left home first…the list and possibilities are endless. There are, however, other rooms, places, and even other relationships I would not seek out, would not enter again, including entering or reviving other iterations of myself…