The Room
Lesley Tarrant Belcourt
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All rooms have their own energy. I am not sure about this one. It changes with memories. I stand in the doorway and see my dog looking through one of the two windows. Both reach from wall top to floor. No curtains. A perfect view. He barks at a dog walking past. Easy to see out but not in. I stood on the sidewalk once to check but saw just darkness.
There were curtains once. At least four sets over forty years. A smaller room then, yet the biggest of three. So we claimed it for ourselves. Perfect for a double bed, dressing table, tall boy and small chair, a mirrored built-in closet stretching across its width. Simple curtains on the one window tied back with ribbon. Luxurious then. But rooms change. This one grew smaller. We removed the wall by the headboard to extend into the second room. Two floor-to-ceiling windows appeared. Sophisticated dark wood trim. Ideal large studio for public speaking and drama classes. Perfect for moving bodies and projecting voices. We invested in heavy, serious curtains. Stage-like drapes. Years later the room reinvents itself into a teenage grandson’s hideaway. Heavy desk supporting a computer, headsets, games. Boxes of technical mystery stuffed in dark corners. And room for a black King-sized low-lying bed. The same heavy curtains on both windows always closed. Keeping out memories of a deserting mother. Our adopted daughter. Much later it is a set for his older sister and her twin toddlers. Pastel walls, filmy curtains, framed paintings, photos, inspirational sayings. Circular mirrors, tiny lights, knickknacks, makeup. Two small beds with Paw Patrol covers. Toy-filled boxes. Clothes-filled closet. A stage set for acting a role. Motherhood. Repeating her mother’s role, she exits before the curtain is raised. Her boys exit left. It remains an empty play room for her boys’ rare visits. Ride-on trucks, skittles/balls, mini-sofa beds, dressing up box, books, crayons, musical instruments. Legos lined up against the walls. Waiting. Each day my aging dog ignores the room’s contents. Lives in the moment. Heads for one window, sinks onto a blanket and barks at whatever passes. Dead leaves blowing. Snow drifting. A witness to the room’s changes. One day— not far away— he will become a memory, too. The room of energies. The room of memories. Another excuse to cry. But I don’t. It is not in the script. |