written in the style of fibonacci sequence 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8…

Breathe.

In.

And out.

Trace the memories.

They roam about this bedroom.

They hide under layers of distant bygones, forgotten.

They rest alongside pink pillows and floral curtains and wooden floors that creak.

Gently take in the sweaty scent of childhood nostalgia. Hold in the last breath until each moment of yesterday is brushed.

Standing on the baby blue carpet, I remember what it feels like to be a child. Unclothed and unbothered. I am lifted by the past; I am the sky and there are no clouds.

When I was six I dipped my fingers in paint. I pressed them against the bedroom wall. My mother brought out her paintbrushes and turned my fingerprints into kittens and flowers and bouquets of coloured candies. Denim jeans and white tees covered in paint, we sat facing the rainbow-arrayed wall. We ate berries and danced.

There is serenity in knowing that the past lives in me -- that beneath my ultimately-weakened-fingers and someday-wrinkled-skin I am immortal. If I hold my breath long enough I can have all the time in the world. Enough to spin and swirl barefoot in my mother’s garden. Enough to eat berries, to love and to dream.

And now, tracing the bumps of my mother’s brushstrokes, I take time bathing in my childhood memories, drenched in a pool of the blood bone and marrow that carries the weight of my past.

Eyes closed, lips curled. I grow drunk on the idea of a younger self. She is covered in baby blue paint.

So don’t rush me yet. I will leave this place when I’m ready.

Just call me pretty and feed me berries.

Let me stay right here.

One more day.

Just one.

Then,

Farewell.