THE ROOM

This used to be my room. It was my sanctuary when I was young. The pictures on the walls didn’t have moving eyes to watch my every move. The walls heard my many secrets but had no mouth to tell the tales.

This space is no longer mine. It is his.

This room now holds a hospital bed. Its walls are an indigo blue. Nothing like the ones that were freed of ugly wallpaper, thanks Dup, and painted a dark purple because Mom wouldn’t let me paint them black.

Metal handrails hold him in place while he sleeps; so not to roll onto the hardwood floor. It used to be carpeted when it was my sacred space. Now, creaks echo and bounce off the many surfaces.

The door has been taken from its hinges to allow the wheel chair to move in and out with ease. Mom probably would have done the same when I lived there, but she also would have had to look at the mess of clothes scattered all over the floor. Today, tire skid marks have ruined the perfectly painted walls and the wooden door frame has notches gouged out in small sections.  

Though his words were once wise and plentiful, he doesn’t speak much anymore. I swear he wants to spend hours conversing about life, but his throat went dry a few years ago and his sentences turned incomplete.

Mom went to the store and asked me to stay with him. The help wasn’t coming for another hour and a half. It was nine in the morning and his hearing aids and glasses remained on the night stand. What should I do? Stare at him while his mouth hangs open and grizzly snores vacate his throat?

I turned to my Fender, the one that I’ve only learned a few chords and scales. My fingers are still clumsy trying to move from one chord to the next, always missing at least one beat in the transition. The newest song my teacher taught me was Pink Floyd’s, Wish You Were Here. It seemed most appropriate to practice at that point.

My pencil-written music, made up of several pieces of typing paper, was fanned over a small side table. I sat in a backless chair at the foot of his bed in what was once my room. The morning’s sun shined through the partially shaded window as I strummed the first note, then the hammer note, then the next, then the G II chord, as my wise teacher calls it. Over and over, I played that song remembering only a few of the lyrics, but reciting the most important words, “I wish you were here.”

My fingers seemed to move easily from the C to the D. Then Am, G II, D, C, Am, G II. Over and over until my finger tips felt raw. My hand cramping. My thumb stiffening. What the hell was she doing at the store for so long?

I held back the tears when his eyes opened once or twice. The indigo walls blurred and he was my focus, wishing he were here in a room no longer mine.