My Room

My writer's group was tasked with
writing about what each one didn't
want to change in the new year. I didn't
technically obey, but this is what I
came up with, and I think
they'll be okay with that.

I have changed so much,
arranged and rearranged
the furniture inside the room
of who I am, bought pillows
I don't like and paintings for
the walls I think are dreadful
and appalling, to accommodate
those who demand the seat
beside the window
so they catch the morning light,

the rocking chair that lets
them sink down like a warm embrace,
the couch because it's easier to
watch tv but leave behind their
crumbs for me to sweep. You see,
I've moved from here to there
and back again when others
felt it best to suit their whims,
not mine, because I wanted
to be helpful.
And I wanted to be kind.

I thought that it was right, somehow,
instead of just enabling them to
follow plans in which I'm just a part,
a tiny part, a speck of dust.
Adept at making these adjustments,
minor, major, sometimes laughable,
and sometimes sad so that the
people all around me were as comfy
as could be, but never satisfied,
nor grateful as I grunted,
working up a sweat around them
while they watched.

I want to be the plan itself, important,
cherished as a room inviting
someone special to come in.

So no more change, unless I choose.
The next time that I hang a picture,
buy a chair, put flowers there or
throw away an ugly heirloom, I won't
care what anybody thinks.
"You hate the rug?"
I'll shrug and tell them their own
room could use attention, leave
me to the space I've carved out for
myself in colors glorious, a windchime
singing from the window, fresh air
blowing, filling up my lungs at last.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2016