My bed was unmade; a pile of dark gray sheets lumped together in the corner between the wall and the corner post of my bed. The frame made of a medium brown colored wood, the swirls made me think of coffee ice cream and caramel sauce. My mother would probably come in at some point before I leave for school and tell me to make it quickly. I never did understand why people make their beds to only sleep in them later.
To the right of my bed, the same wall I lay my pillows on is a silver simplistic end table when you look into it; your face becomes distorted like when you look into the mirrors at a funhouse. Sitting on the table was a bright green lamp with a shade that had once been white. Now it was more of a burnt yellow, thanks to time and a lack of dusting on my part. Slightly to the left in front of the lamp is a small spiral notebook for all my late night thoughts. I bought it thinking I would have grand ideas just before I fall asleep but it’s mostly full of notes like buy extra notecards for the science project and do your laundry its been two weeks and your brothers are starting to make jokes.
My walls are a pale yellow. I could have painted them when we moved in, but I just couldn’t think of a good color to choose so they are still the same yellow. I have quite a few posters, some artwork, even a poem my brother wrote to me. He sent it snail mail when I wouldn’t answer his calls for six months. Trailing my ceiling are fairy lights I “borrowed” from the Christmas decorations bucket in the attic.
My floor has two distinct piles, dirty laundry and eh I guess you can get another wear out of this one. Underwear makes it into the dirty pile after every wear, unless things get really desperate. It’s only happened like three times I swear.
I have a long desk that goes from one end of my room to the other. That’s why I was so quick to call dibs on the room when we moved in a few years ago. I needed the drawing and writing space. Four shelves in three different sizes stack above my desk holding old snow globes, participation trophies from the year of dance and two years of soccer from grade school. I have a shelf just for books, fiction alphabetized by letter of author’s last name and non-fiction organized by the likelihood I will ever read it again. On the smallest shelf, I have photos, both in frames and small photo albums.
You can tell a lot about someone’s room, how the keep it messy or clean. What they choose to put on the walls, maybe they hang up a poster with tape or maybe they have framed photographs. Some choice to have a constant stream of music flowing and others want to sit only with their own thoughts. Do they always have the curtains open with the natural breeze coming trough the window or do they prefer air from a heater or A.C
When I close my eyes I can also see Jason’s room. The dirty white apartment walls. His perfectly made bed, and dresser with a single row of five drawers. He put his underwear and socks in the bottom drawer and his PJs in the top drawer. He kept his laptop constantly charging on an old book on the left side of his bed. The only books he ever owned had either photos or music notes on every page. His pillows smell like his deodorant and his sheets smell like his Axe shampoo. Everything about him seemed to be backward and dating him was like a constant puzzle.
We started dating eight months after I moved here; he had lived here all his life. I became friends with his friends; we all just seemed to click.
Jason asked me to Prom by hijacking my dads mini cupcake pan and spelling out “It would be pretty sweet if you went to Prom with me.”
Graduation was eight weeks ago and we have avoided the inevitable. I am going to school seven hours from where he will be starting his apprenticeship. He will be moving away two weeks after I leave for orientation. That is why I finally wrote my boyfriend and the first real person I ever loved a two-week termination notice.
Fingers crossed babe that we can have one hell of a last two weeks,
With love your girl,
Maddie with 2 Ds