Back when I used to live in the Philippines, my family lived in one house for almost ten years. I had a room to myself, since I was the only girl in the family, which made my room a rather special place for me. It grew up with me, and it changed as I changed. It is filled with memories I kept from my past.
My room has concrete walls painted cream and wooden flooring, which isn't that uncommon in the Philippines. It is also quite small - as I'm the only one who gets a room to myself, it is only natural that I get the smallest room. It is on the corner of the house, though, so it gets two windows, one facing west and the other facing south. Depending on the day this can either be a good or a bad thing, because windows can let in many unwanted things into the room. Sunlight in the Philippines is blinding, even indoors, and on New Year's Eve, the eternal sound of fireworks, the neighbor's off-tune singing, and dogs barking are projected into my sleeping ears. But sometimes, when on a sunny mid-afternoon I enter my room unsuspecting, I am greeted by a golden bath of sunlight that splashes my room with a warm, fuzzy hue. The air is fluffy and dry, or as dry as a tropical country can get - it feels like getting your thickest blanket fresh out of the dryer and covering yourself in it. Living in a tropical country means humidity sticks to you every second of your days, and although my dry skin appreciates the extra moisture, these small pockets of dry air are special moments I can cherish.
At the corner of the walls between the two windows stands a short wooden bookshelf. My dad made it himself when he saw that the floor couldn't effectively sustain my ever-growing book collection. The wood is rough, especially at the edges the sandpaper missed; the line of nails are slightly crooked, and not all of them are hammered all the way in. The varnish has uneven patches, and near the top there is a strip of dribbles that dried before it could crawl all the way down. But it has held my books, notebooks, textbooks, stuffed animals, and boxes of secrets for years, and I am grateful for its services.
Right before the door there is a small table, which is really too small for anything except piling things up on it. As a matter of fact, it is so small that the plastic chair that was supposed to go with it doesn't fit between its legs. So I long gave up all attempts of trying to work on it and instead leave my stuff all over it. It holds an unused mug, filled with pens and pencils, next to my lotion and toner. There is a plastic box holding my hair ties and pins, along with a small jewelry box. Whatever book or papers I have been reading occupies the rest of its surface.
Then finally, there is the bed. It is a sofa-bed made of thin metal frames and an even thinner mattress that on some nights I tuck myself in and realize I can feel the wire netting through the blankets and mattress. It creaks and squeaks if I move too much, and sometimes wobbles when I turn over trying to sleep. But it has been my bed for more than ten years, and the discomfort it may seem to others now comforts me in familiarity. This is the bed where I studied basic sentence structures and algebra and texted my friends all night. This is the bed where I cried myself to sleep on a particularly bad day or lay doing nothing because I couldn't bring myself to focus on anything. I brought to this bed my textbooks, teen romance novels, and my first laptop. We have known each other for a long time, and I love having that little companionship.
The good thing about having a room in more or less the same state for years has a big advantage when you live away from home for a majority of your year, like me. I feel like I never truly belong anywhere, and I have a hard time finding where my home really is: is it in the Philippines, where I grew up? Is it in Korea, where I was born and am now living in? But that one place that I do feel like I belong in is my room, and the familiarity that never leaves the place always comforts me. When I return home for my winter break, I will see the coconut trees and hear the call of the street vendors, but not until I open the room to my door and see that it never changed will I truly feel that I am home.
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