The bed monopolized the room. It's canary yellow canopy swayed loosely across the bed frame. The light above the bed shone down through the wispy canopy giving the bed an ethereal appearance. The ivory-yellow satin sheets draped silently on the mattress. The ivory bedposts stood at attention, reaching just inches below the ceiling. Their tips swelling into four petite ivory orbs. The twin feather pillows lay peacefully at the crown of the bed, waiting for someone to ease their tired head. A golden rose glimmered, resting upon one pillow.

The sun colored walls stretched away from the bed. To the left of the bed against the wall sat an ivory night table. There was a petite, red, hard cover book sitting open on the table. It was a diary. The pages were barren except for the date on the first line; today's date written in a soft and gentle script. A black pen rested in the binding and the red ribbon page marker lay strewn behind it.

There were no pictures nailed to the walls, no posters or calendars. The empty yellow wall stretched on. It continued to the wood door leading to the bath. The open door allowed a view of the ceramic sink from the entryway. Its countertop looks as if sprinkled with golden stardust; it is clean and tidy with a soap dish next to the gold plated faucet.

Next to the bathroom door was a dresser with eight drawers, four by four. The old ivory wood smelled of pine and polishing wax. The drawers were closed; the contents remained unseen. Nothing was on the wall on which the room's entrance occupied.

The wall continued stretching in yellow continuity. A vanity sat parallel to the dresser resting against the opposite wall. The mirror gleamed spotlessly with memories. The old ivory wood smelled of the same pine and polishing wax as the dresser. A silver brush rested on top of the vanity. The smooth handle of the brush shone brilliantly, its age has not touched it yet. Next to the brush, a petite silver hair comb sat. Its intricate gold inlays contrasted profoundly with the glistening silver.

Neighboring the vanity, a door opened to the closet. Even from the outside, the closet loomed in greatness. It stretched back into the wall, lined on both sides with European middle age dresses. They were all different shades of gray and silver, light and wispy to dark and stormy. The fabrics were sound and clean as if recently pressed, not moth-ridden or torn with age.
There was no dust layering the floors or table tops. Not a single cobweb could be found clinging to any nook or cranny. The bedroom was immaculate. A person might think it a portrait or a memory, perhaps even a mirage.


-/- STORIES -/-