They tore down the wall and found the fireplace. Ash and age had stained the bricks, which they cleaned as best they could. The woodworking around the entry took more time. Some occupant in a misguided age had painted it, covered the grain and its ornamentation in generic white, but a scraper and painstaking hours released the relic within: chestnut, common enough in 1891 but a disappeared wood now. It took the years and the blight between to clarify its worth.

This is the living room in which our dogs play, where we drop crumbs while watching television, where our children have spilled juice, and that is as it should be: this is a room with history.

I am alone

my bedroom is not familiar

The door is closed

on the history

of my past.

I am alone

waiting for your knock

Halfway stuck

in my past

I know

you must be there

somewhere

I am alone

bewildered

by new surroundings

I am waiting

for you

where are you?

I am alone

wanting

to unveil

my sheets

in my memories.

I am alone

I touch the paint

on the walls

witness to so much

happiness with you

I am alone

watching

birth of silence

blowing dust

of my life

into hereafter

where you reside.

Vignette/sketch of sheets

Buried beneath spines, exposed

Wallpaper of words

*the den /study /library /she-shed

Four walls, three dressers, three racks full of clothes.

Two windows, One restroom, and a closet full of who knows.

A big wall television and two lamps for the light.

Dallas Cowboys on the wall and bed set for the night.

Two bedside tables and a piece of mind.

Surrounds me with dreams in my "One of a Kind."

Old blue carpet, cleaned a thousand times too many.

Toys in their containers, mismatched but well loved.

A bunk bed for one, because up is the only place left to go.

A rocket ship in a painting, a reminder of fear overcome.

The flimsy half wood door slams, this time for good.

Sometimes, it is in the going where we find our true selves.

What cruelty this is, writing about corporeal reality.

You know that line from Hotel California; “Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.”?

Well, what’s said about dancing can also be said about writing. After all, what is writing but an etymological dance? A performance art that can be enjoyed solo or together, for exercise, endorphin highs, or simply sheer boredom relief.

This is no structured dance though, no elegant waltz or athletically impressive tango, more of a feckless careen.

Still, you asked for it...

I’m sitting at our dining table, which is also our game-playing table. The wall directly in front of me is off-white, with a tiger (my profile icon) painted on it, the other walls are a drab army-green which I picked out of the clearance bin of reject colours at Home Depot. Surface cracks in the corners of entryways (ranging from hairline-fractures to deep crevices) tell of the over-burdened foundation. The floor (covered in a faux-wood vinyl, also on clearance) sports a few soft creaky spots I habitually avoid stepping on.

An old piano which nobody plays (graciously passed down by my husband’s now-deceased grandmother, who also never played it) takes up a great deal of space on one wall, adding a lovely air of fastidious sentimentality to the room, as well as serving it’s secondary function as a singlularly sturdy shelf for a few of the heavier books, along with a change-basket and a rather nice wooden chess set which (as evidenced by a disgraceful layer of dust I’m just now noticing) we also rarely play. On the wall opposite the piano are three shelves, One for children’s books and two for board games. All are overflowing. Behind me is a window covered by a home-sewn sheer-red curtain on a bent curtain-rod. (The children like to pull at them, I made them too long.) On my lap is a three-year-old humanoid, jumping up and down, pulling at my dress and shouting “Mama tum on! you need twoo take me outside!” So this is where the real-time writing experiment must draw to a hasty close. Apologies to any spirits dampened by my musty reflection.

It's new,

Built from the ground up.

It hasn't had the time,

It hasn't had the life.

Just a year old,

This home, this room

Is but a baby.

Just waiting.

This room is waiting,

Just waiting for stories.

It wants to tell you,

Tell you everything.

Yet there is nothing,

Nothing to share.

Just the pitter-patter

Of feet and paws.

This room is waiting.

One day, this room will tell

All of the stories

That have yet to come.

My bedroom is full of relics.

From house to house, room to room, I've carried pieces of the past into every new stage of my life. To my left, a collection of jewelry and clothing built upon my shifting interests throughout the years. There's a framed puzzle I found at an antique store that depicts a bejeweled maiden lying comfortably between a lion and lionness. To my right, a collection of abstract art pieces from elementary school, and some feathers I'd collected from the grounds of places I've been.

In front of me, a painting my husband has owned for years. My mother thinks it's ugly, but he and I both find it quite appealing. The bed I sit on as I type is an antique from his side of the family. He thinks it's ugly, but my mother and I both find it quite appealing.

There is a comfort in carrying the familiar with us. In the turblence of change, it helps to know that there are some constants, even if they are few.

the wood panels

go half way up the wall

pale yellow wallpaper

up to the top

the desk

the night table

the shelfs

are pine

a big box in the

corner

holds the Legos

the only light

in my darkness

is the ceiling light

i'm only five can't read

yet

i peek outside

street lamps

the moon, the stars

i cannot sleep

He might come in

He hasn't yet

He isn't here

mom and dad are asleep

i click the switch

i dump the Legos

on the floor

like all the other nights

build and smash

i destroy His face

build and smash

my hurt leaks out

i never told what He

did, just build and

smash until

the void is filled

i am alive

my hands are bruised

but He is gone

until the night

i hear the alarm

quick clean up the blocks

turn off the light

before dad stirs

and when he checks

i feign a dream

dad strokes my head

love fights fear

He isn't here

I have been renting a duplex for the past 10 months. The bedroom is where I spend most of my time and all it contains is a bed, a desk, and a chair. A calendar hangs on the wall with scotch tape because the walls are too hard to drill or nail anything into. Knowing that this place was going to be temporary, I didn't bother much with decorating. I've gotten used to the lack of color in the room. This room has been the first place I've been living since moving back to my hometown. With that, it contains many of my secrets, such as my sadness from leaving a great city behind to come here. It contains my fear as I hear distant gunshots out my window frequently. It holds my anxiety of the unknown future. I've shed those emotions and secrets in this space and I like to think it holds them close in reverance behind its four walls.

I've had many moments laying on the bed, studying the details of the room. On the ceiling, I found little planet and star stickers painted over by the dull alabaster that surrounds me. They blend in so well with the grooves of the ceiling that I almost missed them. Maybe this was a child's room at one point? I remember having the same glow-in-the-dark stickers as a kid and staring at them from my bed. I would pretend I was traveling through space, an escape from the chaos at home. Above the door, there is the dust outline of a cross that once hung there. The nail and hook remain, but the cross was taken down. Maybe an older person lived in the room prior to the child, a grandparent followed by the grandchild. Maybe they were the same person and these are markings of their aging left behind.

I wonder what marking I'll be leaving behind. No matter how well I scrub and clean to get my damage deposit back, I'm sure I'll be leaving some trace of myself here. Will it be a tiny fleck of nail polish that flew onto the wall that I didn't notice? Will it be some of my cat's fur in the corner near his favorite sun spots? Maybe it could be the love and hope that I have learned to feel while residing within this space. During my time here, I came to the decision that I would try to thrive being back in my hometown. That would mean having to let go of some fears and work on pushing myself forward. Now, instead of looking at this place with despondency, I see it as a launching pad to greater things. I wonder what the other people will be like who will pass through this very room. Surely, there will be struggles and there will be happiness. There may be breakups or families being made. There may be excitement or fear. Whatever the case, I hope that it is filled with love, the same love I felt while living here.