The basic contents of the room haven’t changed much.
A twin-sized bed, a small nightstand next to it, a dresser, a desk with a lamp.
Fourteen years ago, it was deemed The Big Boy Room and we moved his little-boy things in with great fanfare.
When you are three years old and enamored with the garbage man, the height of awesomeness is to have a room at the front of the house. That way, you are the very first one in the family to hear the garbage man coming around the corner so very early in the morning.
And you get to announce it to the whole house.
The Big Boy Room had brightly-colored cars and trucks driving around the room on the wallpaper border, Legos on the floor at all times, a huge stuffed dinosaur guarding the bed, and a jigsaw puzzle always occupied the desktop. A dream catcher hung from the bedpost, ready to spirit away bad dreams that hound even the biggest of boys.
He’s ready to catch his own dreams now.
This room down the hall is still occupied by the same boy, who seems to have doubled in size in the time he’s lived there.
The wallpaper is long gone, the Legos have been tucked away in bins and stored in the game room, and I haven’t seen the desktop in years.
Even the garbage man is no longer a source of excitement, but rather someone to grumble at when he comes too early in the morning and disrupts the groggy sleep of a teenager.
There are piles of socks that don’t quite make it to the hamper, posters of bands I can barely stand to listen to, and movie ticket stubs taped to the mirror next to prom pictures and photos of a hero.
Still Big Boy stuff, I suppose.
But the boy that occupies this room? He’s not in there all the time anymore.
He has his driver’s license, his friends, things to do and places to be.
He’s moving on, that Big Boy.
Come September, he’s moving to another Big Boy room in the dorms, with other Big Boys (and girls). He’ll have a mini-fridge, empty pizza boxes, crazy posters, a lava lamp, and a pile of socks that won’t quite make it to the laundry bag.
If he’s unlucky enough to be near the dumpsters, he may even be able to grumble at the garbage man.
And even though the room down the hall will be unoccupied soon, I have a feeling I’ll still find a reason here and there to open the door.
Who knows what memory I’ll see when I peek inside.
They’re all in there still; some buried deeper than others.
Or maybe just buried in socks.