The Bedroom

I am grateful for a place. It is warm. It is comfy. It is safe. I walk through my home and find myself gravitating towards it. Is it strange that this place is my parents’ bedroom? I think it would be if I was anything like Oedipus. But since I’m not (and I am not), I think I’ll enjoy their bedroom a little longer.

It is wide. It is spacious. And it is inviting to all who enter. The large windows make the bright colors of the room shine. My spirits lift as they guide me to my place. Sometimes I’ll find clean laundry littered over the bed and dive into it, letting its warmth soak the autumn cold out of me. I’m coiling in the flowery smell of around me until I see our backyard from a screened window.

It is beautiful. It pulls me away from the loose bras and faded shirts to study it every time. It’s changed since I last saw it but not too much. The mighty oak is still standing proud in the corner showering its leaves and pollen over everything in its shade. An old swing still hangs from one of its branches. I have no fond memories of it but like the aesthetic it gives the place. My eyes shift to the splintered red and white shed painted just how Old McDonald would’ve liked. Over the years my father and I filled it with chopped wood we took from the oak’s companions. Storms toppled them and the least we could do was put the dying giants to rest. Yes, saying that was just meant to make ourselves feel better about killing them. There is no further explanation.

But even though the trees may not be grateful for this place, I am. In it, I am safe. I am warm. I am home.