This room is not my own

I am sitting on a full bed with sheets of sea-foam green. A massive headboard carved out of a light wood, but stained to a much darker color, supports my head. A matching footboard runs along the base of the mattress - preventing my feet from hanging over the edge at the bottom (which I do not like them to do anyway, for fear of monsters under the bed).

On the north wall - the four seasons are displayed on Chinese wall hangings. Long and skinny pieces of parchment painted by the skilled hands of an blind, 89 year-old Chinese woman in the Hunan Provence who has been making similar paintings since she could hold a brush. The scene has changed in real life - but what her eyes see, and what her hand creates, is the village of her childhood.

Against the opposite wall sits a vanity - complete with a round mirror. The piece matches the solid wood of the bed. My grandmother sat here, with her wedding picture tucked into the frame of the mirror, and applied her lipstick before waking up my aunts and uncles for church every Sunday morning.

The room is a pail blue, not a far cry from the color of the bed sheets. The selection was made by the occupant of this house previous to my arrival, even prior to the arrival of the current owner.

The red plastic tubs stuffed with my summer clothes bring me comfort. My jeans thrown in the corner, waiting for a more permanent placement, actually elicit a smile.

With my life as transient as it is right now - it's nice to remember that home is simple where you do your laundry.