I had been sitting on the floor of your bedroom, surrounded by toy cars. Your little brother finally came to build a race track with us, and for that, your mother rewarded us with ham and cheese toasties, cut diagonally into triangles, placed in a perfect geometric pattern on a pale pink plastic plate from Ikea. The sandwich had a certain sweetness to it, and when I asked your mom why it tasted so good, she kneeled down and whispered to me her secret:
“I used a bit of ketchup.”
She then told me not to tell anyone, not even your brother, and not even you. This secret I held until now, thoroughly matured and thousands of kilometers away from home. I still remembered your bedroom — a myriad of stickers scattered all over the chartreuse walls, the pile of unfinished homework that had to share room with your toys by your carelessly made bed. The grand map of the world, each country sporting their native animal and so detailed you could entertain yourself for hours uncovering something you hadn’t noticed previously. I moved my eyes from Europe to New Zealand, and saw a little kiwi bird.
“Did you know I was born there?” I’d ask, pointing to the tiny, isolated island in the bottom right corner.
“Yes,” you would say with an indulgent smile. “You’ve told me many times.”
Your brother is bored now and wants to play video games in the next room, down the hall. He runs into the room and screams his head off until we decide to go there and join him. I sit on the edge of your parent’s bed and stare into the blue lit screen while you and your brother fight about which version of the game we should play. You both look at me to be the peacemaker, but I don’t really play video games and wouldn’t mind playing whichever game. But because you’re older, you have a physical advantage of towering over your brother and snatching his CD out of his hands, meaning you won. Your brother runs around the house complaining, and your mother comes up to be the peace maker. This ends the way it usually does — your brother gets to choose whatever he wants because he is younger and gets upset more easily.
Now I am older, and the stickers on your walls have become faint. The map is still there, but this time New Zealand is circled with a Sharpie: ‘Maria is here’. The green on your walls has faded a little; the paint is a bit chipped by the door knob. I kneel down next to it (only because the room seemed so much smaller than it had been four years ago) and ask if you would like me to help fix it.
“No,” you say, giving me an offended look.
I look confused. I think I have overstayed my visit this time round. As my final act of love for you and your childhood house, I back away from the chipped wall. Because if I fix this chipped wall, I erase the memory that created it. And as your final act of love, you keep me far away from yourself and your house, and only text me two times a year to wish me happy birthday and Merry Christmas.
Writer – Maria Secara
Editor – Romi Feng
Artist – Joyce Xu
–August 2025–
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