This piece is a reflection of childhood nostalgia; I dive into living in my old apartment and attempt to savor its beauty. Though I struggle with growing pains, I eventually lean towards acceptance.

 	In the midst of a humid scorching summer, while the whole world is engrossed in seeking relief from the persistent heat, I choose to enter a sacred oasis. It’s past my bedtime and my parents think I’m well into sleep, but that’s what makes it fun right? 

 	In this sanctuary where time proves to be nonexistent, I clutch onto the lingering thoughts that have been subconsciously flowing throughout my mind. In desperation, I scavenge across my iPhone gallery for any image apparent enough to provoke decade-old memories only to find myself empty-handed. 

Tonight, I find myself in the depths of my long-lost days living on the cherished blocks of 69th Avenue. 

 	My earliest memory of living on 69th Avenue is eating greasy Chinese food with my parents on a worn-out bathroom stool. After watching the lumps of egg whites float in the boundless sea of my egg drop soup, I finally gulp a spoonful of the rich broth. Comforted by a wave of what feels like home, my six-year-old self defined this as pure bliss. Sure, it wasn’t the most glamorous sight but in my head those moments were magic. 

 	Every single time I mention 69th Avenue, my dad does one of two things; he either remains quiet for a while or goes off on a rant about how we have a better life now. For the longest time, part of me has always hoped for him to open his mouth and say something reminiscent, something at least positive. But who am I to demand him to suddenly evoke the buried sentiments of his past? I could rip off the bandaid and expose his wounds, but it would be no use. After all, he has already built a wall to shield himself from the reminder of the blood, sweat, tears, and cartons of surplus takeout boxes. It isn’t my place to tear it down. I only saw a chapter of his story. I just wished for once that he would see my version. 

 	As I continue to confront my unanswered desires, a part of me compellingly chooses to stay immersed in nostalgia. The radiance of my youth sparks another memory.  

 	I run down the street clutching my scuffed soccer ball. Though its once vibrant colors have faded, its sharp seams are now worn, and there proves to be little air holding it up, its charm has always captivated me. With no worry or fear about anything, I start to run down the street. 

 	 	“Chloe! Don’t run too fast”, my Dad exclaims. 

 	 	“Don’t worry!” I scream as the creases of my mouth form a smile. 

My heart beats quickly, not because of all of my movement, but from the euphoria of the present. My whole world blurs in the most beautiful way possible: the sun is warming my skin, the vibrance of the trees enlightens my eyes, and the cold brisk air rushes through my body. The racket of the outside world diminishes as I lose myself in the stillness of the moment. 

 	Nevertheless, every rose has a thorn. I suddenly snap back into reality as a wave of reality brushes past me. 

 	Upon returning from my trip from my once jovial days, I used to cry. I would sit on my bed, legs spread out, tears streaming down while staring at my white wall. I’ve always hated it; I used to beg my mom to paint it vibrant pink, at least a color that represents me better. However, it is in these moments of solitude that I befriend my white wall as a silent companion. Though all I could see was its non-pigment, inside was different. My sentiments full of explosive, fluorescent teenage angst were always too complicated to talk about. Afraid of facing the repercussions of vulnerability, I always ended up covering my bright colors with white paint, a vizard to cover up my deepest wounds. I’ve never felt brave enough to tell the tales of endless sleepless nights ending with tears dripping across my face, rumination, or ceaseless anxiety stripping my potential. 

 	This time is different. My legs are spread out, tears hidden behind the creases of my eyes, and I’m fixated on the beauty of my white wall. As the night continues to progress slowly but surely, I feel a sudden change in my perception of my long-time friend, as independence creeps on me. With each tear shed, a part of my resistant heart opens bigger for healing. I remind myself that whenever I encounter another day of sorrow, not only will I have my white wall, but also my apartment on 69th Avenue. Though it is only a glimpse of my adolescence, all of its prominence has already been woven inside of me to shape the person I have become. In the midst of a stormy rainy day, its radiance will never fail to save me. As I wipe my last tears, I impulsively decide to do something I have never done. Little did I know, this something is the tool that will bring me through my infamous dreaded high school years.

I begin to write.

Process

I created this piece originally as part of my journal but later changed it to fit under a memoir. At first, I wanted to just get all my feelings out about growing pains and the difficult process of growing up, and it was really mixed bits of personal narration. Next, I was able to identify some of the ideas I had been thinking about subconsciously and eventually started writing the piece. I learned how effective writing from a journal entry to a personal memoir can be.