My Room, My Everything
As I enter the room,
I run my hands against the walls that hold
so many memories.
This living room is more than just a room.
From the shelves filled with games,
to the old magazines,
to the chipping paint on the window frames.
I think of my family
entering the very same room for the first time
years and years ago.
When the windows shined a little brighter,
when the books were a little less tattered,
when the paint was as good as new.
I watch my feet walk across the smooth, cherry-brown wooden panels of the floor.
I sit on the plush cushions of the blue couch
that I’ve sat on ever since I can remember.
I turn my head to look at the window panes behind the couch.
I see the cracked white paint that’s been there for decades.
I stare through the window
and I see the familiar sight of the glistening banks of the lake,
as still as glass.
I turn back and focus my attention
on every minuscule detail of the room.
I see the black guitar leaning against the wall,
having waited all year to play until we come.
I look at the chandelier that lights the table while we eat.
My eyes wander over every metal detail.
I move to the rocking chairs, detailed with floral cushions.
I can hear the creaks in my mind from miles away.
I scan the rest of the room
and my eyes land on the coffee table.
It sits on a rug woven with threads of a dozen colors.
I take a deep breath in, and the table’s oak scent fills my nose.
I run my fingers around its misshapen outline.
I sit on the couch
in my favorite room in the world.
I close my eyes,
and the rest of the world disappears.
This room is peace,
happiness,
bliss;
This room is home.