Earlier this semester, my writing professor had each of us write a detailed description of a memorable room or space in our home and I chose to write about my younger sister's room. So much of our childhood was spend in each other's room, and I just thought it made sense to write about her room and the times we've shared together in it. As someone who tends to keep things personal, well, personal, I decided to share the piece.

My memorable place is my middle sister’s room. It is the room where she and I became best friends. When we first moved in, it was a sky blue color and empty, except for the boxes that had our things from the apartment. My sister and I argued over who the room would belong to. She wanted the room because it was big enough for all her toys, but so did I.

We ended up agreeing that it would be for the both of us—at least for the moment. We made window art and we painted the room pastel yellow. Samantha wanted the yellow because it was pretty like the sun and she said that the color would make me less grumpy.

When I started sixth grade, I moved out of the room and into the room we called our playroom. But, nonetheless, I was always in her room. I helped her repaint it light green and rearrange the furniture.

We spent hours on it, perfecting it, making sure it was arranged so that only positive energy flowed through. According to my mother, the bed could not be under the window or facing the door. Her white dresser sat underneath the windows and her bed was across from it on the other side of the room. Her three small bookshelves were lined up on the wall by the door. Her painting easel was in the corner next to bookshelves, for easy access and enough light if she wanted to paint.

My sister’s room is where we would play music loudly and have dance parties by ourselves. It is where we would lie on the floor to do homework together, her looking over at me and waiting patiently for me to finish writing something so she can ask me to help with a math question.

My sister’s room is where she and I heard the bloodcurdling scream of my mother on Memorial Day weekend. It is where we sat on her bed, where she asked me, “What do you think happened?” I remember shrugging and shaking my head responding that I did not know, that maybe Papá Rafa passed away.

It is where my skin crawled as I saw my dad slowly make his way up the stairs and take a deep breath when he saw me. It is where he sat down in front of us and took what seemed like an eternity to deliver the news. It was in her bed that we found out that my Tía, who was just with us a week beforehand, had been fatally shot. It is where we held each other that night, tear-stained, forever mourning the Tía that we did not have enough time with.

My sister's room is where our youngest sister clearly started planning my demise. Where my mother walked into a room filled with endless giggling and started videotaping. Where the youngest thought she was the little comedian, pushing me off the bed and then laughing when I almost did. It is where our chiquilina became a part of our friendship even though she’s several years younger.

My sister's room is where we would pull all-nighters watching Netflix (or at least where two of us would and the other—usually the chiquilina—would pass out), the youngest armed with snacks, the pillows fluffed, the lights off, and the door closed to those not invited to our movie night.

My sister's room is where she and I— and more recently, the chiquilina—established a friendship, a support system, a secret club between sisters that many of our friends are envious of.

It's like I tell my friends: “When I say I won’t tell anyone, my sisters don’t count.”