This is a tale about a young boy and the space he called his own.
Nine years ago, on our first night in a new home, he drifted off to sleep surrounded by towering boxes. I had tucked away his beloved teddy bear, a checkered comforter, and his favorite storybook, The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales, in a box labeled “Open First.” As I read to him, the soft glow of the lights kept the shadows at bay. He wasn’t quite ready to turn them off or let me leave just yet, so I activated the hidden button on his teddy bear’s heart. This triggered a snippet of me singing “Help,” a lullaby from his infancy when my sleep-deprived mind could barely remember the lyrics to any other song:
“When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody’s help in any way…”
I watched as his eyelids grew heavy, his golden lashes brushing against his cheeks. He was at that perfect age, teetering between innocent wonder and the onset of teenage rebellion—a blissful time I wanted to cherish. He was a truly magical nine-year-old boy; his laughter was infectious, and his tears tugged at my heartstrings. If he were selling dirt door to door, I would have bought a truckload just to see that face.
We sang together, pushing the button repeatedly until he finally drifted off to dreamland. Inspired, I resolved to unpack his room overnight so that when he woke up, he would find a transformed space. The previous six months had been tough; his father had moved ahead for work while we stayed behind to finish school. That winter was harsh, filled with ice storms and difficult farewells to friends and familiar places. I longed to restore some joy to his life, to create a room he loved as much as the one he had left behind, where he could act out characters from his favorite tales and build impressive Lego creatures.
Thank goodness he was a sound sleeper! I hung clothes in his closet, draped capes and hats on pegs, decorated the walls with pictures, and organized books on shelves. I filled his red wooden wagon with toys, showcased his Lego masterpieces, and tucked trading cards into a shoebox beneath the bed. His moon-and-stars rug lay freshly positioned on the floor, while above his bed, I hung a cheerful yellow Styrofoam sun.
By 4 a.m., I had completed the transformation. I even flattened the empty boxes and took them to our garage, overflowing with packing materials. Before hitting the sack, I set my alarm for 8 a.m., excited to witness his reaction when he awoke.
At 7 a.m., I was stirred from sleep by a gentle touch. “Mom,” he whispered, “please wake up.”
“Why are you up so early?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“Something happened while I was sleeping,” he replied with excitement. “My room is nice now. The boxes are gone! You have to come see!”
Fast forward to last week, and I found myself packing up that same cherished room as he embarked on his college journey. Some items would be tossed, others given away, and a few kept as keepsakes. His Legos and trading cards remained, but many other belongings had been replaced or tucked away over the years. A few drawings still adorned the walls, while his favorite posters, including ones of The Beatles, found their way to his dorm. The closet was mostly bare, save for a few plastic-wrapped treasures: judo clothes from his father’s childhood, a wool blazer gifted by my mother, and the tiny faux leather jacket he wore while pretending to be Elvis.
I vacuumed the curtains, freshened up the bedding, and cleaned dried toothpaste off the carpet. As I dusted the smiling sun, I realized the button on the teddy bear had long lost its magic. Sitting on his bed, I sang the lullaby one last time:
“Help me if you can, I’m feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being ’round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground—
Won’t you please, please help me?
Help me, help me, ooh.”
The memories flooded back, bittersweet yet beautiful, a reminder of how quickly time passes.
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