The Silent Room

On the floor, sits a pair of leather boots with broken buckles. A brown suede jacket with missing fringe faces a pair of white bellbottoms and a poet’s shirt with laces instead of buttons; each one hanging inside a dark closet with a door that’s always ajar.

The long dresser holds a bottle of Taboo, white eyeliner, black mascara, and a small jewelry box with hoop earrings, a Timex watch, and gold studs. A copy of The Prophet lays beside that box, along with a tattered paperback titled The Hobbit. At the other end sits a small record player with no needle and an album with the words Velvet Gloves and Spit printed across the front.

Windows, rarely opened, are concealed by lilac drapes. Below is a tall, square table that plays the part of a headboard for two twin beds, with a hiding place inside for letters from a young man, pictures that needed a home, and a notebook full of words written with tears and a few half-smiles.

The light purple walls hold memories, stuck within the paint that was brushed on long ago: Memories of best friends laughing in the dark, of sunburns and daydreams never realized; and the young girl that lived there once upon a time.

Each year that room fades a little more until finally nothing is left but shadows. Still somehow it wonders what became of her, unable to grasp the passing of time. And for a few moments every day those shadows that are left, linger over three small graves, remembering the soft fur of the cats that kept her company when she needed them the most.