A Room Half Full

The room was empty when we moved in. Other rooms, the dining room, the bedroom, the bathrooms, had been left with tiny remnants of the past owners, a used toothbrush, socks tucked in odd places, and even an armchair that they must have forgotten. 

But this room was empty. It was smaller than the average bedroom, right off the living room with no clear purpose but to exist.

Our first idea was a nursery. It was bright and sunny, with a large window that looked out upon freshly turned earth where we intended to plant the Begonias from his mother’s garden. For months we dreamed and planned, picking out furniture for when we would finally need it, anxiously awaiting when we could purchase the long list of items that would make our dreams a reality.

Even after we learned that we would never need a nursery, the room was empty, the dreams and hopes still lingering in our minds. Dust collected the floorboards and spiders began spinning webs in the unused corners, the whole room a desolate reminder of what could not be.

He suggested it first. The other obvious use for the room, superseded by the want of a nursery, became the new plan.

But it was time to move on.

And so it began.

We painted the walls a calm, neutral color that he picked up on his way home from work, the paint rollers sliding smoothly over the unappealing tan that had coated the walls before.

Curtains were purchased, a deep, dark blue, and were hung over the wide windows so that the light could be filtered or blocked as we pleased. 

The queen came in then, taking up the space of over two cribs, an imposing piece of furniture that cemented itself in the middle of the room. It was the foundation of new dreams, a new plan that was beginning to take shape. Dark wood framed its edges and the intricate headboard was pushed against the wall. I picked out the sheets and the comforter myself and neatly made it up, knowing that there was no one to stay in it.

Next a set of drawers, which took an entire afternoon to assemble, and were tucked into the corner. They matched the bed well enough, the two different woods being slightly off from the other, but close enough to not be noticed. I found them a useful hiding place for the extra blankets and pillows that we had accumulated, but most of them remained empty.

The left-behind armchair was moved in next, as we had no other place for it, and it seemed wasteful to get rid of it. It brought a sense of the old into the new, the worn fabric standing out next to the bright colors that spread themselves across the bed.  I picked up a small table to sit by it, keep it company, and the two waited for someone to bring their book and tea and enjoy the sunshine in their comfort, brown and blue.

That was all the furniture we could fit in the room, but there were still some things missing in my mind. A mirror was hung behind the door, a simple and useful accessory that could be bought for cheap. I set a small clock on the table by the chair, so they could both watch the hours move by and know how long they waited.

A hook I attached to the back of the door, for no other reason than knowing how practical they were for any inhabitants of the room. It was the only item in the room that was present purely for practicality, as the other objects had an element of beauty to them.

The final addition was a small plant that sat upon the drawers, soaking in sunlight from the large windows that overlooked no Begonias, but instead a dry patch of dirt that had yet to be touched by life. It was a small spot of green among the browns and blues and blacks, and everyday I ventured into the room with my small cup of water to give it the drink it longed for. 

Every day I opened the shades so that the sunlight could spill into the room, over the cozy but still empty interior, over the waiting armchair and its friend the table, the bed neatly made but unused, the glistening mirror that looked at nothing.

The room waited patiently for its first guest, the clock counting the minutes that passed, the plant watching the sun rise and set, bare of breath and life as it sat and waited.

The day of The Arrival was a busy one for us, as we bustled around making sure everything was in order. And when they burst through the door it seemed as though the whole house had been quiet for centuries only to be filled with laughter and noise for the first time. Chatter and hugs filled the space as bags were moved from here to there and back again. 

There were Begonias too, wrapped up carefully and set to the side until they could be planted, as though they had been waiting their entire lives to arrive here. The room, empty for so long, had a purpose. Clothes were slid into the empty drawers, a hat hung upon the lonely hook, a bag sat upon the mighty bed, and a book set on the small table. 

The bed was tested and the plant cooed to. Even in the absence of people, the room stood proud of its purpose, of the things it held, and when its inhabitant returned, as the sun set and the curtains were closed over a window that looked out at newly planted Begonias, the room was as cozy as could be, the armchair welcoming as old bones settled into it, a cup of tea set on the anxious table, and when finally night had truly arrived, soft sheets welcomed tired limbs.

Finally the room was no longer empty, it was full to the brim with the vitality of life and the breath of a sleeping figure, prepared to give rest and shelter from the world beyond.