You see, a few hours before her return home, her bedroom looked nothing like the room she last left a few months ago. It’s become my spillover room. My junk room. I never quite got around to making her bed after I stripped the sheets from her last visit. Maybe that’s because a few boxes of Christmas decorations that I’ve been meaning to repack have been sitting on top of her mattress. Along with three bags of clothes ready to turn over to a charity. Some pants that need alterations have been draped over her desk. A suitcase that should go in the attic was stuffed under her desk. The light in the ceiling has been in need of a new bulb for two months now. I don’t really mind though. But I notice it every morning as I pull myself into the big open space in the middle of her room where I do my morning sit-ups, push-ups and assortment of other exercises — many with a jumbo exercise ball (which I gladly leave in the middle of her room 24/7).
Now mine is the room with the boxes. And the yoga mat. And the suitcase and the bags of clothes for charity. I hardly notice the jumbo exercise ball at the end of my bed.