The Room Being Archived

She sent the photo.

"What should we keep?"

Like it's my choice,

like the room was ever mine to decide about,

like I get a vote on whether

the place I slept for eighteen years

becomes a guest room

or storage

or nothing.

The light is different.

She used a different camera,

and the room looks smaller,

looks emptier,

looks like it was always waiting

for someone to come photograph it,

to archive it,

to turn it into a memory

before it becomes a room again.

The poster is still up.

The bed is still there.

But in the photo, under this new light,

it all looks like someone else's childhood,

like I'm looking at the childhood of a stranger,

like the room has already let go

and is just waiting for the person

to catch up.

I could say keep it.

I could say throw it all away.

I could say I don't care,

which is mostly true,

which is mostly a lie.

Instead I don't respond.

I look at the photo again,

trying to see myself in the room,

trying to find the moment

when I stopped being the person

who lived there,

when the room became a place I used to be

instead of a place I was.

The photo sits in my phone

like an artifact,

like proof that I existed

in this particular shape,

in this particular light,

before the light changed,

before I did.

She'll call again soon,

asking what I want to do.

I'll tell her I don't know.

I'll mean it.