Original Story Based on Childhood, Written as a Letter to Something in Your Past

Here’s the beginning. I hope you like it.

Dear Bedroom,

Two years after my mother died, I think of you. When did childhood end? Was it when I gave the eulogy, told the impossible, hilarious, tragic, extraordinary life she had? There were earlier endings. At five, my grandmother died, and I didn’t speak for a week. You remember me then, in the womb of your white walls, weeping, kicking against the sides, against the tides, against death.

It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Leaving Spain was another death – when dad left, and mum started dating the bank robber, and the dream of Disneyland died, our savings taking us only as far as Canada – right continent, wrong country.

I didn’t say goodbye, or send you a postcard from the border, leaving the sun and crossing into the snows. Nor a photograph, a snapshot of me ballooning to eleven stone: ten years old, and a giant snowball of a kid, out of place. Yes, that was a kind of ending, but really, I think the damage was already done, further back, when you still knew me.