A room of sorts

I look around my room and see the following:

a jar filled with quarters.

clothes in a pile on top of my suitcase that I haven’t actually fully unpacked since Christmas.

an empty tin of honey roasted peanuts.
two of my “nice” shirts hanging together. they are the only things hanging up. I will probably give them to Goodwill soon, as I never wear my “nice” shirts.

empty water glasses.

books: Ender’s Game. Zuni Cafe cookbook. “Heat” by Bill Buford.

there is paper strewn about. mail. letters. receipts.
I see a scale hiding underneath my bed. I haven’t stepped on it a while. I’m a little nervous to. I’ve been eating my fair share of pastry these past few months.

my room is in shambles. half way moved, half way here.

I suppose I am in the same shape. one foot in, one foot out.

I don’t necessarily like living with my things here and there. I have places for my things, but those places are not here and may not have a book shelf or desk or kitchen to call their own any time soon. That’s okay.

I see my alter, in the corner there. St. Francis, rosary, fountain pen, a bottle of India ink. San Damiano cross given to me by my friend Beth. My grandad’s binoculars. My great grandma’s painting of a mockingbird. a pair of my old glasses. an old book (Alfred, Lord Tennyson) and an Abita beer bottle.

It sits there, strong and unmoving. They remind me of how rich I am.



They remind of being constant. They remind me of myself.

I see my bed, built for two.

My slippers, a bit too small for my feet, but I prefer to call them “cozy”.
I see my pile of black t-shirts because it makes it easier for me to get ready for work, and to come out looking somewhat clean on the other side. (And also because they help me look not-so-chubby). Whatever. I like black.

Regardless of my living situation, and the things that have caused me to move out, I am thankful for this safe space. The space where I have cursed the gods and more so, my roommate’s dog, for getting into my peanut butter. He is a sweet dog, though. I always give him my love before going to bed.

The hum of my heater confines me a bit. It is all I hear.

No commotion.

No clanging of pots and pans. It is me, in this little space, curled up in my brown chair.

I am glad I was able to cultivate a place to heal. I knew what I needed to see,

when I needed to be warm,

and when the dark from the outside became too loud,

I gave in, and welcomed the light like an old friend.

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