So many things.
Stuffed into the closet. Shoved under the bed. Scattered on the floor.
More like caked onto the floor.
Do I even have a floor?
Broken doll from second grade...
...my grandpa gave it to me for my birthday.
Brittle flowers hanging from the ceiling...
...a fruitless attempt to keep that glorious night alive forever.
Dusty guitar propped against the bed…
...I was going to learn to play it.
My room is full of dead things.
My life is full of dead things.
But as my eyes sweep the scene of crusts and carnage
I notice the bookshelf in the corner,
the one my dad made for me when I was six.
There are the books I've always read,
the ones that helped me, the ones that saved me,
and some of the ones that I hated so much
I fumed at the turning pages for weeks...
and then couldn't bear to throw them away.
In those pages are wars and traitors
and summer days and roses
and pain and heartbreak
and joy and song
and in the end there is one thing that binds them
that breathes life into them.
It is hope.
Hope that the wars and the traitors
will turn to summer days and roses
Hope that the pain and heartbreak
will turn to joy and song
Hope that death
will turn to life
The room transforms.
Hope begins from the bookshelf and spreads,
Its fingers of light and warmth touch everything.
The doll seems to tell me, "He's okay."
The flowers whisper gently, "There is something glorious waiting."
The guitar invites, "There is still time."
My room is alive.
My heart is alive.
I am alive.
It doesn't matter what I own
or where I am
or where I'm not.
The hope will touch me.
The hope will change me.
It is all I need.