My Old Bedroom

My father
wiped my childhood from the walls
with two layers of paint.
Scraped away the layers of my evolution
from girl to woman,
and the myriad of events that took me there.

I didn't weep.
I never mourned the loss
of moments, faces, events that shaped me.

My old bedroom,
and all the memories it contained,
is gone,
and I am left with this self-doubt.
Why aren't I more sad?
Why don't I miss those candid snaps
and old Birthday cards?

My father wiped my childhood from the walls,
and I wiped it from my memory.