My grandmother is currently dying.  Technically anyone who is currently living is also currently dying, but as far as I know, she's closer than the rest of us.  That's really a glass half-full, glass half-empty, kind of issue. Because of my grandmother's approaching passing, I had a conversation with my mother today. The conversation landed upon the issue of where my grandmother's belongings, specifically her furniture, would go upon her death.  Perhaps it seems a bit cold and calculated to plan for the logistics of a woman's death, but these are the things you do when someone you love is nearing death.  This, along with a lot of reminiscing and nostalgia-ing.  As is typical of my family, human beings (like my siblings and me) will be displaced and replaced with furniture.  When I was a child my playroom was filled with the furniture that came from my grandparent's home upon my grandfather's death.  Apparently we have a family tradition.  The Jews have Shiva, we have furniture.

When my mother first mentioned the great furniture diaspora that she had planned, it sat fine with me.  It was when the details were discussed that I went a little insane (I don't actually think you can go a little insane.  That may be an absolute). Turns out, my mother intended for my childhood bedroom furniture to be replaced with my grandmother's much nicer furniture.  My reaction to this plan shocked me a bit.  Despite knowing that the decision would be a logical one, I was panicked.  I immediately began to cognitively scheme and manipulate the conversation such that my bedroom decor would be maintained in its entirety, while my siblings' was gradually deconstructed.  

I haven't spent a significant amount of time in that bedroom in two years.  I moved over 500 miles away and am moving even further away in the near future.  I made the choice to leave my childhood home, and my childhood bedroom, and really my childhood in general, to pursue my own life goals. But for some reason it seems that something inside of me is still dependent on that bedroom. 

Perhaps I feared that without the pink walls and white bed clearly designating a space as my own, my parents would forget me.  Or maybe I feared that without the pink walls and white bed, I would forget myself and the childhood that I had.  Or maybe I just have peter pan syndrome and never want to grow up.  Whatever the reason, it is uncomfortable and downright terrifying to think that things will be changing.  That I am truly growing up.  That adulthood is inevitable.  That my life is my own.  For worse or for better.  It is is my own. Change is terrifying.

Keep on thinking,

Josie