The Gravesite Inside of My Room

A different version of myself appears in the dusty corners of my bedroom, but I can’t help but feel like she’s someone I wouldn’t recognize. 

Sofia Esparza

On my windowsill sits a jewelry box filled with gold-plated necklaces and rings. One necklace is adorned with pearlescent, heart-shaped opals, a birthday gift from when my boyfriend and I started dating four years ago. There’s another necklace with a gold sword pendant, which signifies my last name derived from the Spanish word for sword, “espalda.” Next to my jewelry is a stack of books collecting dust. “Jane Eyre,” “King Lear,” “The Associated Press Style Guide,” and at the bottom of the stack, the Holy Bible my grandmother gifted me before I moved to Minneapolis for college. I was raised religious but I fell out of it in high school. I still keep the Bible out where I can see it though, to remind me of my family, where I came from, and the things I once believed in. 

The objects in my room that I no longer touch, the necklaces that hang still and the unopened Bible, collect dust. They remind me of my younger self, one with less anxieties about graduating from college or finding a job. They belong to a dead version of myself, one that I haven’t had time to mourn as my adult years fly by and my childhood is left behind. My room is a graveyard, yet there are no tombstones, only posters of bands I no longer listen to and clothes that no longer fit. Photos of people I haven’t seen and perfumes I don’t wear. A faith I don’t practice and jewelry that doesn’t match my current style. I can’t bear to part with these things. I’m detached from the wide-eyed girl I was, but a piece of her still lives inside me. I wonder if she’ll ever return to those things she once loved. I’m so excited to find out.