My room, and I

I look across my room.

It has lived with and without me for 27 years. How have I treated this room?

Have I respected the sanctuary it has offered me, in moments of happiness and of trouble? The numerous hours we have shared, the room and I, in silence? The many secrets these walls faithfully hold?

Have I not returned to this room a billion of times and has it not always greeted me with an open door?

In it, I have stacked boxes and boxes of lifetimes of things. Clothes spread out on the floor, empty coffee cups, photo albums and books.

In fact, when I look around now, I see my whole life up to this point, represented in this room.

There are my childhood photographs, the letters from my first pen-pal, school books and an old bible, the frames from Italy, the shells I picked on a secluded beach in Australia, the chess table I bought from a Malawian man called Gift, the plates and wine glasses from my first apartment stacked away in boxes and by my bedside there is the altar with the special gifts that have come into my life, of which the meaning only I, and the room understands.