The Room at the End of the Hall

Facebook has this lovely little feature of nudging us with memories from time to time.

Milestones. Random photographs. Celebrations. Moments we thought we had forgotten. And sometimes, pictures we’ve deliberately tucked away in the filing cabinets of our minds for reasons both good and bad.

Facebook doesn’t care. It just opens the drawer, blows off the dust, and says, “Hey! Remember THIS?”

Well, thank you very much, Zuckerberg.

I don’t always catch these little trips down Memory Lane, especially during busy weeks like the one I just wrapped up.

This afternoon, I was sitting outside basking in the glorious late October sunshine after helping put the pool cover on for the season. While I do welcome fall with its crisp mornings, colorful leaves, and cozy evenings, saying arrivederci to my beloved summer can leave me feeling a little melancholy. Anyway, there I sat, scrolling through Facebook when a notification appeared.

October 21, 2012.

There it was.

A photograph of my sister Kathy and me sitting in our childhood bedroom at 36 Grant Avenue for the very last time.

My parents had purchased our home in 1969. Forty-three years later, they were preparing to sell it and move into a gated community across town. It was time to downsize, simplify, and begin another chapter of their lives. Perfectly understandable. But nobody tells you that when your parents sell your childhood home, a little piece of your own history goes on the market with it.

The room at the end of the hall had originally been mine. Kathy occupied the bedroom across from my parents’ room.
Somewhere along the way, we flip-flopped rooms and eventually shared one when our Grandpa Eastwood came to live with us for a while. Rooms were shuffled. Furniture was moved. Beds came and went.

But the walls? Oh, those walls remembered everything.

On that October day in 2012, Kathy and I sat together in our old room, looking around. We didn’t need to say much. The walls were doing enough talking for both of us.

They held decades of stories. Kathy had her own collection of course. Me? I had six additional years of material stored in those walls. Seniority has its privileges.

I looked toward the spot where my dresser and mirror once stood.

Good Lord, the HOURS I spent in front of that mirror.

In the 1980s, my bedroom doubled as a full-service hair salon. I was determined to master the French braid craze or achieve maximum altitude with my shoulder-length Long Island curls. The higher the hair, the closer to heaven. Let’s not forget the industrial quantities of hairspray required to keep that architectural masterpiece standing.

When I wasn’t masquerading as a stylist, I was performing sold-out concerts in front of that same mirror.

Madonna. Fleetwood Mac. Barry Manilow.

Yes. Barry Manilow.

Kiki is a major Fanilow.

If you’d like to leave now, I completely understand.

Go ahead. I’ll wait.

My microphone was a hairbrush, my audience was imaginary, and my performances were nothing short of spectacular. At least according to the artist.

I smiled as I remembered my friend Debbie sleeping over when we were little.

For my tenth birthday, I’d received a brand-new transistor radio. It came with earbuds, which, for you younger readers, were prehistoric versions of today’s wireless AirPods. Except these had wires, plugs, and an uncanny ability to betray you at the worst possible moment.

One night, around 1:30 a.m., Debbie and I were sitting on the bedroom floor listening to 77-WABC.

I reached up to grab something, accidentally pulling the earbud cord out of the radio’s jack.

And suddenly…

ELTON JOHN WAS LIVE IN CONCERT AT 36 GRANT AVENUE.

I’m fairly certain the astronauts orbiting Earth could hear Sir Elton.

So could my mother who materialized in the doorway approximately 1.7 seconds later, staring down at two hysterically giggling girls with one eyebrow raised. You know the eyebrow. The universal maternal expression for “I don’t even want to know”.

Oh, how we laughed. And now, decades later, I could almost hear that laughter bouncing off the walls again.

The room had become a memory cave. Every corner held something. Every inch of space had a story waiting to be told.

I turned toward the window. Suddenly, I could almost hear my grandmother’s voice. My mother’s parents lived in Brooklyn, and we had a wonderful arrangement when I was growing up. They would come stay with us one weekend, arriving Friday evening and leaving Sunday morning. The following weekend, we’d travel into the city to visit them. Back and forth we went. Those weekends were treasures.

When Grandma and Grandpa stayed with us, I’d climb into bed beside Grandma and she’d ask me to tell her everything about my week and I mean EVERYTHING. School. Friends. Teachers. Whatever earth-shattering drama was unfolding in the life of little Kiki.

As I talked, she’d gently scratch my arm.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

I can still remember the feeling. The comfort. The warmth. The complete and utter security of being a little girl curled up beside someone who loved her unconditionally.

There are some things in life that no amount of money can buy. I’d give just about anything to feel Grandma scratching my arm one more time.

I sat there for a moment, allowing that memory to settle.

Then I looked toward the bedroom door.

Oh, the HOURS I spent behind that door with the telephone. Remember telephone cords? Not the little curly ones. I’m talking about the industrial-strength, twenty-foot variety that could stretch from one end of the house to the other and wrap around three pieces of furniture before reaching its final destination. I’d drag that phone into my bedroom, close the door, and talk to my friends for what seemed like days.

Privacy!

Or so I thought. Little did I realize that everyone in the house could hear every word, and with approximately five other telephones scattered throughout the rooms, someone could easily pick up an extension and join the conversation. Or worse. Just listen.

I wonder how many family members were secretly tuning into The Kiki Show long before I ever dreamed of writing a blog.

I looked toward the closet. Another treasure chest of memories. How many mornings had I stood in front of that closet, desperately trying to put together the perfect outfit for school? And later, for dates? Clothes tossed onto the bed. Shoes scattered across the floor. Fashion emergencies of epic proportions.

Because, naturally, the fate of my entire social life rested upon whether my jeans looked right with a particular sweater.

And then there was Alex. Our dog. A Miniature Schnauzer. During thunderstorms, that closet became his personal storm shelter. He’d retreat inside, seeking refuge from the booming thunder and flashing lightning.

Funny, isn’t it?

That little room was a safe place for all of us.

For a dog frightened by thunder.

For a teenager navigating the awkwardness of growing up.

For a little girl listening to her grandmother’s stories.

For two sisters who shared not only a bedroom but a lifetime of memories.

Eventually, Kathy and I knew it was time to leave.

I stood up and took one final look around.

The furniture was gone. The closets were empty. The familiar sounds of family life had long since faded.

It was just a room now.

Four walls. A ceiling. A window. A door.

At least that’s what someone walking into it for the first time would have seen.

But I saw something entirely different.

I saw a little girl with a transistor radio.

A teenager singing into a hairbrush.

A grandmother with gentle hands.

A dog hiding from the thunder.

Two sisters laughing.

A mother standing in the doorway with that raised eyebrow.

I saw forty-three years of life.

By then, I had long since moved out, married, purchased a home three doors down, and started raising my own family.

Three doors.

That’s how close I remained to the house where it all began. But even though I was only a few footsteps away, I knew that once I walked out of that bedroom, I would never walk into it again.

Someone else would eventually sleep there. Hang clothes in the closet. Look out that window. Make memories of their own.

And that’s exactly how it should be.

Houses are meant to be lived in. Rooms are meant to be filled with laughter, tears, dreams, and occasionally an Elton John concert at 1:30 in the morning.

Still, saying goodbye has never been one of my strong suits.

I walked toward the closet and gently closed its door for the last time.

Then I turned and took one final look around.

And whispered two simple words.

“Thank you.”

Thank you for forty-three years of memories.

Thank you for holding my secrets, my dreams, my laughter, and my tears.

Thank you for keeping me safe while I figured out who I was going to become.

And now, fourteen years later, Facebook has handed me that photograph again.

Two sisters. One empty bedroom. A lifetime of stories.

I sat outside in the October sunshine looking at that picture for a long time.

And I realized something.

I may have walked out of the room at the end of the hall for the very last time, but a part of me will always live there.