What do you remember most about your childhood bedroom?
(This is a poem I wrote some time ago that includes what I remember about my childhood bedroom.)
Too hot or too cold for living or playing,
my attic bedroom is a place to sleep or be sick.
Morning light radiates off mustard-yellow walls splotched with green.
In the acid-green spots, applied with a sponge by my grandfather,
I imagine animals, plants, and distorted faces.
At night, I think they glare at me.
I rest in a big iron bed, enveloped in a cushy mattress,
propped up on large pillows.
September breezes lift lace curtains that brush my feverish cheeks like
Mother feels my aching forehead and spoons cough syrup into me.
She draws a mothball-scented quilt over my legs.
The quilt has been scrapped together with smooth pieces and rough,
bright and dark, plain and fancy,
held together by scarlet cross-stitches.
As I sip hot lemonade, Mother retells the quilt story.
The plaid piece was Daddy’s wool jacket.
The brocade was a golden slipcover.
The pink patch was a flowered curtain.
The satiny fabric is left over from her wedding gown.
She pulls dark-green blinds and tucks my baby doll under the covers.
I close my eyes.
Mother’s kiss feels cool and as soft as a butterfly’s wing.