Shea's Room

Mon, 01/02/2017 - 19:06 -- sdunlap

There is a quilt on the bed in Shea's room, Pink, red, blue, green, and violet,Lace and stripes and polka dots,White pillowcases with crisp corners. There are books on the shelves, different genres,Stuffed in sideways and upways and frontways,old fantasy, thrillers, adventure,Smudged ink in their yellowed margins. There are papers on the desk by the wall,Poems and Post-its and signatures, Cardstock cut into star-shapesJournal entries and unfinished sentences. The closet is empty in Shea's roomCobwebs and dead ladybugs lie stillA lamp has a cord around its middle No breeze stirs the air; the curtains are closed. There should be music in Shea's room.There are songbooks, yes, but no hum of the heaterNo branch scrapes the window outsideWhen a storm comes, the raindrops fall without rhythmNo longer are things made in Shea's room.The colors are faded in Shea's room. They say that there's something in Shea's roomMemories and fragments and pleasant dreamsThey say stories came alive and still lingerSeeping through the cracks of the wooden floorboardsHorses graze in green pastures in Shea's room. But I know what's really in Shea's room. There's a year's worth of dust coating Shea's roomNot a thing has been touched for monthsThere's no Shea to be seen in Shea's roomSince she headed for the hills and never came backThere's no life and no soul in Shea's roomShea's room is a stone-cold shellThe inner shine scrubbed away by disuseOnly shadows survive in Shea's room. There is nothing alive in Shea's room. Just an empty closetAnd booksAnd Post-ItsAnd ladybugsAnd remnants 


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