My Dorm Room

My shoes,

Tossed to the side, out of the way of the door,

are not new,

they are from the height of the 80’s.

Duck boots,

Essential shoes for the cool kids.

Now they’re the essential shoes for the

                     Hipsters.

There are piles of books on the desk,

on the floor.

Most of them have corners folded down,

Passages memorized, the words reminding me of those

from the stories my mom told me during that camping trip

when I was 10.

When I was 10 my room didn’t look like this.

It was a foot deep in clothes,

closet empty,

CD’s splayed on the table near my head.

Now its inches deep in clothes,

closet full,

CD’s tucked religiously on a separate shelf from my books.

I have paintings hung now.

I never would have hung paintings anywhere but the fridge in 3^rd grade.

Now my fridge has a shopping list:

Milk—check

Chicken Nuggets—Check

Plane tickets—pending.

My room is filled with

the smell of my blankets.

Not laundry detergent.

Not my perfume.

It’s the smell of the first blanket I remember:

white with large rabbits on one side, grey dots on the other.

In one corner of my bed I can find peace in the crinkled sheets and fluffy blankets,

in the few patches of bare wall.

I think of summer in my house, my home.

Air conditioner running, the buzzing expected as you walk in the door.

Little siblings run through the family room as I lay looking at the ceiling,

calls for Mom ringing in distressed tones.

The sun beckons through the large front window,

and I know that I’m in a permanent home.

No matter how many times I move,

that will always be my home.

My room is home.

Sometimes.

Mostly it is just a room.

Cardboard boxes waiting in the corner,

waiting to be filled again.

My laundry basket is by the door,

waiting to be emptied by my Mom.

The room has pictures and a mirror hung up.

The pictures are hung by sticky tack,

and the mirror will be gone in four months.

It’s just a hotel room.

They give you a key when you check in,

take it back when you check out.

They give you the essentials for a part-time stay:

One window.

One closet.

One bed.

One door, partially closed.

--P.A.