Curled up in a chilly summer afternoon with a cat not coals warming my toes in the bottom of the sleeping bag
With the addition of the sleeping bag, it is official. I am camping out in my room. Pieces of my college dorm overflow and temporarily take over. My bookcases, boxes, lamps wait to return to their real lives lighting the set of a furnished student dorm room. College clothes do not fit in with dresser drawers of camp cut-offs and softball sponsored tee-shirts of teams like Moore’s Homes, Windham Family Chiropractic, and Donavan Country Realty. I dress out of suitcases. I trip over the cord of the electric kettle trying to get into the closet. I deal with the clutter conscious that it is only for the intermission of a month between the main acts in New Haven.
I am camping out in my childhood. The white ruffled curtains, horse ribbons, baby blue carpet, beaded bracelets, flowery comforters blooming on matching twin beds are overwhelmed by this soon to be sophomore strewing stuff and shelving books on every surface. And I know the person who day dreamed of college while collecting petals to press in the basket hanging by the door would be sure to be surprised to see her room taken over by who she turned out to be. While I haven’t changed all that much, I would shock myself. Out of place at home, living like I don’t belong to this room anymore, it’s time to go back to full time life. Maybe it’s out of respect for the undead that everything’s unchanged underneath. When I and the paraphernalia of nineteen leave, the room will be a memorial to twelve. A testimonial to return to and to be comforted under the familiar flowered comforters.
I am camping out in my childhood. The white ruffled curtains, horse ribbons, baby blue carpet, beaded bracelets, flowery comforters blooming on matching twin beds are overwhelmed by this soon to be sophomore strewing stuff and shelving books on every surface. And I know the person who day dreamed of college while collecting petals to press in the basket hanging by the door would be sure to be surprised to see her room taken over by who she turned out to be. While I haven’t changed all that much, I would shock myself. Out of place at home, living like I don’t belong to this room anymore, it’s time to go back to full time life. Maybe it’s out of respect for the undead that everything’s unchanged underneath. When I and the paraphernalia of nineteen leave, the room will be a memorial to twelve. A testimonial to return to and to be comforted under the familiar flowered comforters.
