Assignment Day Eleven: Today, tell us about the home you lived in when you were twelve. For your twist, pay attention to — and vary — your sentence lengths.
When I was twelve, we lived in an apartment in a small town in North Rhine-Westphalia, Germany. I grew up in this town. And in this apartment, and I didn’t leave it until I went to college. So this was it. Home. Most definitely.
My room always was my room. When I was smaller, it seemed huge. A universe of possibilities. The more I grew, the smaller the space seemed to be. Or to be more precise: the more things filled it. Visible and tangible ones, but also experiences, things learned, knowledge, dreams, nightmares, …
It changed from white to pink back to white over the years. The bed stood next to three different walls for a certain period of time during my time in that room, but never underneath the window. I had a desk, a ‘Schrankwand’ (popular furnishing item in Germany where built-in cabinets are not that common; it’s a wall unit – mine included a wardrobe as well as several shelves and closed compartments), a little sleeper seat. Posters, too. I felt at home in my room. Safe. It was my space.
We lived in an 8-apartment-building, just off a not too small street. The house was white, the window of my room went out to the front. When I was twelve, I could see the apartment building in front of us through my window. When I was way smaller, there was a gas station once. So the apartment building was better. My best friend at that time lived in there. And I could see her window from my window – as you all know by now (or will find out when following this link), I didn’t have curtains when I was twelve.
My mother lived in the apartment, too, of course, as did my stepfather. We had lived together for some time by then, so it was a pretty normal family living situation. I don’t remember whether I was particularly happy or unhappy or anything else. I probably was a pest, driven by hormones. But I was good at school, had friends, and was content most of the time.
Sometimes, when I have one of these days (you know what I mean), I want to go back there. To the innocence of childhood, where your biggest problem was that you didn’t tidy up your room (often enough). I was good at that. At not keeping order, that is. My mom threatened me more than once to throw all the stuff on the floor into a garbage bag if it would still be there in XY minutes, and then leave it at the curb . XY depended a lot on her mood in those days – it could be anything from 15 to 60. It also depended on my mood. If I was naughty, it usually was less time than on days where I was nice(r) but lazy.
Anyway. Going back is no good. I loved my room, and I love my parents. But I also love my life nowadays, and the rooms of our current humble abode. My parents are still in that apartment, so I can visit anytime. But my room is not my room anymore. And that is a good thing.
The challenge and the original assignment can be found here: Writing 101 – Day Eleven