Somewhere, a room is waiting for me. My soul mate of a room.
The planets are working on it right now. Finding the right alignment to bring me and my room together.
The books are stacking up. The paint is drying on the artwork. The seeds are dormant in their thrift store pots… waiting.
Somewhere, the most comfortable dining room chair is being sat on by seventy-one year old hips. And tomorrow, or the next day, or years from now, that chair will be put on the curb to start its journey to me. To being my chair at my desk by my window.
My cat is now just a twinkle in a tomcat’s eye. She’s the loudest in the litter. She’s orange, or black, or a white-mittened tabby—I don’t know yet—but the cotton for the cat-bed has been harvested. The bed that will start on the floor by my feet, but will end up beside the row of books on the desk, because I’m weak for her eyes and she loves the sunshine… and being near me.
The photos pinned to the bookshelves are being taken. In Marrakesh and Positano and Zagreb. In jungles and cities and seas. In some I am alone. In others, my smile rests on the shoulder of someone gaining wrinkles with me.
Someday I’ll feel a rush when I pin that first photo to the shelf. Like a badge to the room’s lapel. To my room. To a Room of One’s Own. To a Room with a View. To a room where birds put on a show at the feeders outside. While my cat’s eyes flick back and forth, lazily, dreamily. Where we make things from dawn to 2AM. Where the sewing machine never gets dusty. Where manuscripts stack up and slump over for lack of space. Where the constant paint under my nails is a reminder to pick up the brush.
It’s the room someone will pick over when I die. Where they’ll find all my hidden secrets. Where they can pretend cat hair and dust is the reason their eyes water. They will take home a box of things. And my dining chair, with my shadow in its cushion, will return to the curb. Where I hope the planets see it and match it with all their wisdom to another someone’s Room.
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