I step into my old bedroom for the first time in three years and it’s like I never lived there at all. Nothing has changed: my bed still unmade, my books stacked on my desk, a box of stuffed animals upside-down on the floor. Still, I can’t recognize myself in the pictures on the wall. I open a stray notebook, and the words in my handwriting make no sense. I pace around for an eight-count, noting my junior high pom-poms peeking out from under my bed. I feel the heat on my neck and the pain in my wrists and look away again. I don’t anticipate catching my own reflection in the mirror.

When I lived here, my hair was long and brown and beautiful. I wore contacts and dresses and walked like a queen. I got crowns at prom and homecoming and the annual Miss Friendly City pageant. I have a crown tattoo on my neck, hidden by the short hair I had to bleach to get the pinks and blues and greens out. It matches the arrow on my ankle and the cross on my hand and the scar on my cheek. I notice an old picture of myself and can’t help but compare us. Her eyes were blue like a sunny day on the beach; mine are a storm brewing. The contrast is jarring, shaking my knees and my faith.

I am unsteady, but I didn’t come here for closure. So the boxes come out, and in the memories go. I start slow, examining every object and knickknack carefully, turning the past over in my hand. The memories make my heart spin and my head pound. I feel the black sludge track through my veins, a tsunami starting in my stomach. I can hear my heart in my ears, in time with the tick of the clock. I change my pace, pushing things into boxes shelves at a time. I am frantic, lungs empty until the box is full.

I continue in a near catatonic state until I’m done. Time is an illusion at that point; days seem to pass in hours. Years of my life reduced to mere moments. Then the room is empty and all my boxes are full and the anvil is released from my shoulders. The girl in the pictures is gone and I am me again. I can breathe again. Relief soothes me like aloe vera mom once put on my burns. A sleek silence settles over the space, and I wonder why I came. The boxes will stay here; I have no use for them.

I open the door for the last time and knock over a box. A single object is displaced; a kaleidoscope rolls across the pale pink carpet. I approach it carefully, hesitantly moving across the minefield. I lift it to my eye, only to realize that the glass is cracked. I peer through and see nothing but a dusty yellow. I hear beads rattle around inside, but I can barely see their shadows moving. I swing it around and look again, but nothing has changed.

The tawny tint acted like a time machine, sending me back to a smoky day in Texas. I was maybe eight years old, and fresh out of the dentist’s office. Temporarily traumatized by the appointment, I demanded a visit to Chick-fil-A afterward. Mom, tired, gave in, hoping it would placate me. It did until we arrived to find out that they ran out of waffle fries. My tantrum resumed until I was comforted by a red balloon, gifted to my mother by the sympathetic teenager at the cash register.

I was satisfied on the walk back to the car, red balloon in one hand, Chick-fil-A bag in the other. My mother, weary, warned me to not let go of my balloon. I rolled my eyes and made of game of letting go and grabbing on again. She sighed and I lost focus. My balloon danced out of reach, and it was the end of the world. The tears seemed to drown me; I couldn’t think straight. The balloon had anchored me to the ground, and now it was racing skyward.

I drop the kaleidoscope. It bounces off my foot and into the wall. The same tears I cried all those years ago burn and blur my vision once again. The room collapses in on me, and I race to the door. I shut it, belongings packed neatly away. The room is still and my mind is in turmoil. All my balloons are cut at once, bound for the heavens.

—By Amanda C., 16, San Antonio