The blindfold drops from my eyes and I look around the place I’m going to be calling home for the next whatever. There’s a strange feeling that comes over me because I can’t quite make out whether an adult lives here or if some child just has really adult tastes. Muted colors of blue and grey highlight the room. The light coming from the window might shift those colors as the sun rises higher in the sky. I guess that’s how I ended up with a black jacket when I thought I was clearly looking at a blue one.
In the corner sits an olive chair and matching ottoman, slightly oversized as if the person who sits in it is taller than average. A few books rest on the nightstand, the latest Brad Meltzer, an economic textbook that looks so worn out that the cover might slide off of it’s bindings, and a notebook filled with sheet music. There’s no instrument sitting in the room, so I couldn’t tell you without opening the binder what to expect.
Pictures cover the dresser. An older couple dressed as if they are going to celebrate some event. Another picture of a couple basically the same age but dressed in baseball jerseys. Several of the frames have been turned upside down, their pictures obscured by the wooden surface. A copy of a sonogram sits taped next to a photo that had to be taken years ago. A copy of “Hug the Bug” pinned underneath the edges of the frame. There must be some relationship between the two, otherwise why do it? Finally there is a picture of a middle aged man standing with a young boy, also dressed in his little league uniform. Father and son? You can tell this was printed form some computer, the colors washed out by paper being printed on the wrong side!
The difference in old versus new can be unsettling. It looks like a teenage girl was here and maybe her father left the other stuff? A few stuffed animals in the corner don’t seem to go with the other personal items on display. The bed covering is pulled tight, an afghan someone took the time to create resting at the foot; again masculine overtones confuse the picture. The closet door is pulled shut, a set of pristine running shoes in front of the white wood. I guess someone just likes to spend money on shoes to walk around? Pity they aren’t being used for actual running.
The nightstand is a confusing mixture of cables and pill bottles. Chargers for devices that are all to common and yet one of these cords is industrial in nature. Some machine was here and moved recently. Half a dozen beige containers with words like Votrient, Hydrocodone, and Doxycycline with their covers just resting on top. A syringe or two of something I can’t quite read being used as a bookmark for yet another economics book. Another picture rests there of some women created from other pictures into some collage. Again you can see the photos are more recent, but the manly overtones remain – no colors surrounding the frame, just pictures.
If I stood at the door I would think that two different people live in this room, one much younger than the other. Torn between two time periods, yet finding some blend that works. A single purple rose that matches the bush I saw against the house resides in a simple bud vase. Another sign of some memory carried into today, the occupant must still be around.
[I’ve carried some of the past and some of the present with me to Boston. There are parts of the past that were waiting for me when I got here. When I look at the room it comes with a great burden and some sadness. People and places that I know I won’t see again in this lifetime and coming to terms with that is amusing, maybe a little heartbreaking. At some point someone will clean out my house and understand the value I placed on people. Even when I didn’t tell them, sometimes when I couldn’t. Things that now have stickers on their backs or undersides that I want given to certain people. The rest just given to some charity. I like this room, the protection it gives. But it comes at a price too high for others!]
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Clean Slate.”