A sun dimmed to a soft egg yolk pastel. Yellow. My least favorite color. And yet, I wait for it, in hopes I’ll get to see it for longer than just a week during summer vacation.
A single place can be the entire world. A moment in time. Or a room, powdered in daffodil.
One step inside, and I’m 5 again, sloshing around in my inflatable pool...6 again and fumbling ecstatic to be celebrating my first birthday in America...7 again and coercing my cousin to take on the meter high roller coaster...8 again...
A lone tread uncorks memories stashed away in my subconscious from years past. How can a space where a bed absconds half its area encompass my childhood?
My quotidian haze of enervation from a day’s drudgery wanting interlude institutes a sense of despondency that only a panacea, my lemon chiffon room, can eradicate. If I had a transportation charm though, I would ferry myself over into this elfin expanse, disappearing from the perturbation of one world into my own which exists lifetimes beyond their capabilities. Without this haven I am an inert volcano detaining and yearning release; bottled up then pried loose as divergent paroxysms inevitably follow.
I’d lie upright on the berth, intoxicating myself with the siren’s enticing perfume of sweet salt and tranquilizing ions-the everyday specialty of the ocean. Then, an engine’s distant tremor will reverberate through the air and dissipate into a stifled whistle past the bungalow, its fading Coquelicot taillights smearing the night.
The fan’s dial stations on medium high, its oscillation forging feathery blades of wind, each stroke a duet by thrums and breezes of a soundless lullaby.
I don’t dream.
Everywhere else. Not here.
I just sleep.
Seven days is all I get in this room, seven days of the year. But so much can happen in seven days, so much can occur. Only here, wrapped in pale sunshine, can I ever rest.