Back Bedroom
Wednesday, May 13th, 2009
Sometimes, this happens. I almost gave up on this piece. I spent an afternoon writing it. I sent it to a friend for editing when I thought I’d come too close to it (thank you, Jenni). But here it is, a mercy posting. Whittled down to its essence, the most beautiful words here and the others dicarded, so that what I meant to say is more evident – and relevant. Good. Now I can move on to something else.
In the back bedroom, I cleared some space on a desk for my things. I set some private papers written in lawyer language there, my keys, my wallet and filled the drawers with cash and some writing that I’d composed on loose pages a year ago. This is my confidant now. The place where I have absolute faith – this room with the desk and its tall mirror. The subtle hint by its interior designer must be introspection. On every wall, a mirror shows me back to myself and my life in legal records.
Mirrors on the closet doors make it impossible to lay here and not look inward. I wonder if the walls will suddenly collapse as everything else does. I expect them to. I’d go on reading and studying, or sleeping if they came down in the night.
This is a quiet room – a common room. The mattress lies deep in a wrought iron bed frame, metal leaves molded into the arching bed frame. They are black and rotten, curled into themselves, strung together with a thick metal wire.
This room is temporary, so I’ve made no appropriations of my own. I’ve left the wall hangings alone: wood carved to say “love” in cursive; a painting with nine hearts and each with a phrase written inside – “love is patient”, “love is kind” and other false wisdom of the like; and a flower bunch. The truth about love couldn’t fit on a wall, and if it could, it wouldn’t be up for display.
My most prized possessions are spiral bound journals with superheroes on the cover. I could start my life over again as long as I had a pen and paper. I already have. What I’ve written wouldn’t be lost. The good the writing has done me is in the easiness of the words tonight. I could start over, basic, like this, a small room filled with mirrors to make the walls seem farther apart.
Home … makeshift home. I’m only a guest here. Still, I’m cozy as long as this leads to another beginning. The words have more freedom than I’ve allowed myself and I imagine them stepping out for a walk.
