our guestroom.

Only two pieces of furniture fill the room, one old and one new.

The old: a tiny twin bed, a hand-me-down that spent its years in a little girl's room, where there were sleepovers and dolls and stuffed animals in the early years, and magazines and makeup and CDs in the later years. A bed that often held sleeping cats, piles of clothes, and worn journals. A bed that was still there when the little girl came home from college, all grown up, bringing with her bags of laundry, textbooks, and a different pillow than the bed was used to. This bed knew the scent of nailpolish, the sound of laughter, and the weight of tears, because it had been there from the beginning. Finally, the night came when the little girl - not so little anymore - climbed into bed for the last time in her room. The girl never returned to sleep in the bed again, and soon the bed was covered in plastic and stored in a dark place. But after a couple years, the bed found itself in a new room, with big bright windows and white walls. And the girl, she was back, smoothing out new sheets and draping the bed with a soft canopy. Now the bed was ready for a new life, perhaps with another little girl someday, but for now as a place for guests to come and go and sleep comfortably.


The new: just a shiny white dresser, holding a typewriter and some books, waiting for what the future holds.