The Bedroom

It’s a large room, as bedrooms go. It has two double windows. The shutters are closed. The bed is metal, painted blue. It’s a narrow bed, neatly made. An old radio stands on the bedside table. The only sounds this room hears are from that radio. 

The floor is golden oak, showing its age. The walls, too, are expressive, with cracks in the plaster on every side. The ceiling boasts a schoolhouse light and fan, turning slowly this autumn day. The lamp on the bedside table was an oil lamp, with a chimney, electrified now with a flickering bulb, a hint of the original flame. There is no soot on the glass chimney. 

Books and papers are piled on the bedside table, the only suggestion of disorder. Even the medicines are labeled and neatly organized in lines. If a cat leaves fur on the quilt, there is no sign of it.