It’s weird that we still call this room that, referencing it to him even though technically he only resided here for a few odd years. It’s always been somewhat of a guest room, the largest bedroom in the house with the most sizable built in closet and direct access into the bathroom. It is the rock star room or more appropriately the master bedroom. And for that I never quite understood why you never settled in this room, opting for the smaller room beside it instead.
I’ve always viewed it as such a regal like room, slightly more substantial than the other two and in it stood that grand double bed of mahogany. I suppose it was that bed adorned in one of your most prized floral comforters and that closet that stretched from one side of the wall to the other that always skewed my mind to favor it. These days the room would hardly be classified as large and that closet would see many a fight between a couple over valuable storage space! But through the eyes of a child it was somewhat magical.
One thing virtually remained, it was always spotlessly clean and forever unused.
Although there were times this room saw life. Like those times as a little girl when I had permission to sleepover, (the only sleepovers I was ever allowed to attend as a child mind you) we’d talk and play games then fall asleep late at night in this room, in that very bed. Though mine was always a restless sleep because at that point I always wanted to go home. You poor thing. Thinking back I can’t begin to imagine how annoyed you must have been with me, reveling in my joy and excitement to stay over at your place only to have me complain and whine about needing to go home almost every time! Ahh the joys of kids. You were always such a patient person. I remember almost always being awake, staring at the changing tones of grey on the ceiling as the darkness made it’s way across the skies and listening to the sounds you’d make while fast asleep, anxious for the sun to rise. Recognizing those same sounds as a beloved great aunt would make too, sounds I also now fear that I make at the early stirrings of dawn.
Now this room stands hallow apart from a few boxes of what more is left of you. Bursting at it’s flimsy cardboard seams with more clothing, linens and kick-knacks. A few pieces of fabric stacked helplessly ontop of each other; unsure of their fate. Fabrics that you spent your entire life gathering, finding beauty in those brightly hued off-cuts and frayed edges. All those pretty, vintage laces crushed into each other creating new creases and lines, only serving to further annihilate what artistry remains. I desperately want to come to their rescue and salvage each and every last thread but the reality is that I can not. Mum would thwart such plans, insisting they be divided upon all of us, despite me being the only one with hands raised for such an adoption.
It’s another sad sight and this house just seems to be saturated with views such as these. It’s also ever so troubling to think of what will be, thoughts that seem to plague me now, completely overthrown those thoughts of my happily ever after. Joining the dots and speculating what will now transpire in your walls is about as harmful as cancer herself. Those whimsical dreams of quiet movie and wine nights with good friends horrifically murdered by obnoxiously bad loud music and beer. Dreams now buried by those very strangers who’ll begin traipsing through your corridors and rooms, corridors and rooms that I will most probably be ‘banned’ from ever entering again. But it’s the thought that it will be my own brother who gets to sleep there soundlessly that I can’t stomach. Him in a deep slumber while I continue to rot back at our parents.
Forgotten, always bloody forgotten.
I wonder if this will ever get any easier. If I will ever be able to truly let go. This has played such an important role in my life and much like ones first love those memories seem destined to haunt me forever.