Creative Blooming memories of a room

My Room

With four sisters, it wasn’t until

I was a high school junior

when I finally got a room of my own.

It was bout 10 x 12 with one window

shaded by a choke cherry tree

occasionally attacked by a woodpecker.

I painted the walls bright orange

with brown trim. No rugs

covered the rough wooden floor.

At night I had to pound on the walls

to keep the chipmunks quiet.

My friends thought that hilarious.

A single clothing rack

tucked behind the door

held my few hang-up clothes.

The room also housed a dresser

a book shelf, bunk beds

and two corner shelves.

The shelves held my

teapot and vase collection

and incense burner.

One wall featured an antique mirror,

big, but not full-length, another

displayed pennants from my travels.

I slept on the top bunk,

though no one slept on the bottom.

The radio, within reach, played rock music.

In various places, I hid my diary

(mostly about my boyfriend)

but my little sister always found it.

When my daughter, at sixteen,  

resembled me, my sister said  

she had sudden urges to steal her diary.

Through the thin walls, 

I listened to my parents worry about me,

and found it strangely comforting.