My roommate and I stood on our unstable chairs that night before we moved out, scribbling our names above the door of Klassen Hall’s room 245. This was our way of marking this room as ours.
Now, no trace of the etched “Chloe” or “Sarah” could be found as I peered past the recently painted gray door. The room that opened up before me was devastatingly different.
The beds were rearranged. My roommate’s and my beds were close together and pressed against the wall. It was aligned perfectly with the window, so that bright beams from car headlights pulling into the parking lot blinded us nightly, waking us up from our doze.
Their blinds were pulled shut, but ours never were. We had a rule. Never, under any circumstances, were the blinds to be closed. We may have flashed people a time or two, but it was a fair trade-off to be able to look out from the “best spot in Klassen,” as we used to say.
It was the best not in terms of beauty, but in location. We didn’t look out at the glistening ocean, but rather at the walkway that everyone passed through, every day, rain or shine. We’d spy on new couples giddily leaving for dates, watch emotional family reunions and have countless conversations through the mesh screen of our window to the people standing on the walkway, most of which ended with, “Wait one second, I’m coming on up!”
I spotted a John Mayer poster hanging above my bed, which now belonged to one of the guys in our beloved room. His name was either Aaron or Erik, based on the name tags on the door that covered the place mine once hung. I wonder if John Mayer’s bass notes could be heard filling the dorm in the same way it filled ours, along with Gracie Abrams, Lana, The Smiths and The Backseat Lovers — all of the greats.
Music was the anthem of our lives. In that dorm, my roommate and I were taught how to play the guitar one night in September. We sat on the floor as we patiently tried to learn the cord names and sounds. I quickly gave up, but she stayed up for hours practicing until calluses formed on her fingertips.
It didn’t matter if it was traditional southern gospel music on a Sunday or Lizzy McAlpine drowning out the rain outside; not a day went by that we didn’t have music playing or being made.
We’d have music nights. Oh, how I loved those nights. My musically gifted friends would strum the guitar and hum until we recognized the tune, and we’d all sit in a circle on the floor, launching grapes into each other’s mouths or laughing because we forgot the words. The imperfect collision of our voices comforted me in an almost spiritual way, making it feel like time stopped just for us.
Sand-covered hardwood floors have replaced the cozy boho rug that sat on top of our carpet. That carpet used to have a big stain right in the center from my Mac lip liner that was dropped and smudged into the fibers.
One night, my friend could have been spotted, paper towels in hand, desperately trying to soak up a puddle of pee that was visible by the door. That puddle was a result of a joke she found way too funny and a state of delusion that can only be reached at 3 a.m.
As I stood looking at my old room, no longer filled with the scent of REPLICA “Beach Walk” perfume and instead smelling Old Spice and sneakers, all the memories came flooding back. It was as if I were watching ghosts of myself dancing around the space.
Memories of me hiding behind the door as we got our 10th noise warning of the semester. My roommate waking me up because I overslept for class again. My friends and I talking about our childhood and families, and in doing so, creating a new little family right there in that room.
Our marks may have been painted over or ripped out, but the memories made in that dingy old dorm room marked me in ways that can never be removed.
Sydney Brammer