My bedroom had never boasted a piece of furniture so white. Our bunk beds had yellowed with the carpet, and our wooden windowsills had faded gently into a dove grey. The new dresser, though, fresh out of Ikea, straddling the five foot gap between our two interior windows, reflected every wavelength of afternoon sunlight. Glints of excitement and the glare from the dresser reflected in my sister and I's eyes. This six-drawered, newly made, untouched, store bought dresser was ours. 

With the last bolt of installation came the first pair of socks, casually tossed in the second drawer. More followed, and soon undergarments, necklaces, pants, tshirts, sweatshirts, and dresses proudly paraded into their new home. My loosely folded clothes began to pleasantly wrinkle in the top two drawers, while my younger sister's stayed neatly folded in the two below. We each took a small pull out drawer at the top, promising to share the bracelets and headbands stashed inside. 

Our dresser has joined the rest of our room in the art of being off-white. The twinkle lights taped to its edges make the morning search for matching socks easy, and the two small drawers are home to a clutter of hats and letters, gum and gift cards. Now there's a second dresser, spilling over with the youngest's pajamas and jeggings, staring lazily across the room at mine. My sisters might not remember when these drawers were so bright they shone, but my dresser will always be white to me.