When you were four I painted this room pink for you.

And now, as the paint roller makes the pink disappear and I cover the handprint on the wall,

As I tote your beanie babies to the donation bin, I wonder—

The next time I paint this room, will it still be yours?

I think of the mother I was six years ago who rolled pink on thick, so confident that this room would be your favorite place to be.

And it is. Your socks litter the floor, your art projects are left half done on the windowsill, your science experiments stuffed under the dresser.

The deck of cards you used to do card tricks when you were six are at the bottom of a bin of unicorn toys.

The picture you painted in art class is wrinkled underneath your bed.

You’ve grown so much but I as I paint, I feel like something is ending.

Like I am covering up a whole period of time that I didn’t know I would miss so much.

There’s no Barbies stuffed in the closet anymore, your princess chair is long gone.

You’re only 10 but 10 is halfway to 20 and these 10 went by in a blink.

I think of a night eight or ten years from now I will wander down the hall to turn your light off- stand at the doorway and listen to you sleep…

But you will be fast asleep in a dorm room somewhere sending me a text that says, “Love you Mom, good night.”

I sat on the floor, in the place you used to have tea parties today and cried.

No one tells a hopeful mother picking out pink for her toddler that pink will fall out of favor, that cool posters will someday adorn the walls and the door will close you inside to trade secrets at sleepovers, or to make lists of the places you want to travel someday.

Places that are not down the hallway from me.

I wish I knew the last time you crawled into my bed.

I wish I could remember when you were light enough to carry up the stairs.

I wish I spent more nights reading books in the pink room laying next to you, until you fell asleep.

When we redecorate, we winnow through the old you and decide if you’ve grown out of more than just last year’s jeans— you’re growing into someone, too.

Someone who will change this room (but not the paint) three or four more times— as you trace new trends, as you develop new passions, as you keep getting older despite the little voice I still remember inside these walls.

You’ll take photos off the wall,

Hang up new ones,

Again and again until…

I am sitting here rescuing dirty clothes from the floor—wondering how it went by so quickly-

Wondering how time paints over my little girl until a little woman emerges.

I want to paint all of the rooms you will live in. I want them all to be down the hall from me.

This off white paint you picked is a blank canvas of the girlhood before you.

The pink paint was armor for me- to keep you here- to keep things new- to keep myself from believing that time keeps rolling over us.

It’s a contract, maybe- one that guarantees you will stay longer as a little girl in a ballet skirt on the windowsill.

A sleepy girl wrapped in a blanket on a Saturday morning.

It reminds me that you don’t belong to me-

Perhaps you never did.

Your new room,

Your ever changing brightness-belongs to the world now.

Sit down on the bed with me.

Let me remind you of tea parties and songs you would sing to me at night—

And promise to come back here even after it’s not your room anymore— after you are too big for this bed—

And let me turn off your light for you every once in a while.