the mourning of a room once had

I’ve returned to the bed that holds me a few times a year. To the house that was once my home…still is my home…becomes my home in this transient life. The walls are yellow, not white. A request I made in honor of my late grandma. I used to sleep on the hide-a-bed in the yellow room back when it was her painting room. She did such lovely art. Except for the yellow walls and the rocker, the room is void of what was her. It’s void of what was me as well. Somehow I like it better…cleaner…less cluttered.

This room was once mine. It was once my home. The place I went for rest and comfort. In my mind, it still is mine. I grew up sleeping in this bed; read thousands of books using only the light from the street, the real reason I now wear glasses. The quilts, handmade by my mother, protected me from the cold-weather and the snakes that used to crawl around on my floorJ In the summer heat, they became my nemesis as I tried to stop the sweat from dripping down my back. I used to sit in my grandma’s rocker and watch the rain pour down the window outside caught in dreams of a world beyond. I would watch as people cruised…from Dave’s to the end of Main Street…from the end of Main Street to Dave’s, a pleasurable waste of a night.

Somehow, as I became transient, my room morphed into my less transient sister’s room. Then it became a guest room. Now it is referred to as “Emily’s sitting room.” Emily is the sister chilling out at home before she becomes transient. Each evening, after work, yoga, and dinner, she sits in her sitting room and knits. Her eyes see different things out the window…the bed is a different character in her story…the room carries a different meaning.

Tonight, the rain is replaced by snow and the rocker is too far from the window, but the bed embraces me as I drift into dreams of a world beyond. For just a few short hours, the yellow walls become my haven, the quilts my protector, and the room… mine.