A Room of My Own

 
The sun floods the attic as I crouch underneath the beams, trying to find my desk. My desk is rudimentary, a child's first desk; it is an old hand-me-down - perhaps someone bought it for me at a garage sale. It is small, plain, unfinished. That is the key: it is not finished; it is made from unvarnished pine.  I doubt it will ever be finished. Three drawers are on the right: the top is for pencils and other writing implements; the middle for papers; the third for files.

Originally, I used these drawers in the way they were intended: in the top drawer, I kept pencils, pens, erasers, a protractor and a lucky rabbit's foot. In the middle drawer, I kept my valued essays of childhood, words hurriedly scrawled in a fevered pitch, a race keep my creative vapors from escaping before pencil seared words onto the page. In the bottom drawer, I kept files - report cards, essays and tests. Humdrum verifications of my life, at that time.

As the years went by, I grew taller and my needs grew more sophisticated. In the first drawer, changes were gradual. First ballpoint, then fountain pens replaced my trusty Ticonderoga No. 2.  A left-handed Calligraphy pen was my favorite. I had a small box of watercolors for painting flower borders along hand-lettered calligraphy during times of stress or boredom. The lucky rabbit's foot remained in the drawer as the sole object from my 10-year-old childhood.

In the second drawer, essays on cotton-rag Bond paper soon replaced the wide-lined, loose-leaf pages, now yellowed and dog-eared.  These were not school essays, but the figments and fancies of my imagination stored in darkness until they were ready for the light of day.

In the third drawer, the one reserved for files - well, this is where I completely lost all sense of order. Soon I kept belts, scarves and a pair of shoes. I had outgrown the need for files, having graduated to the gun-metal grey filing cabinets that line the attic walls.

In the third drawer, I have a favorite red-and-white scarf; it is long enough to be a belt, neck or head scarf. I've used it for all three purposes. Mostly, I've used it as a scarf for jeans or as a scarf to tie around my Polish pigskin handbag. A Polish Kilim tapestry is above my desk: I can see its wool and linen fringe hang just out of reach. Woven into this tapestry is the image of a schoolboy and a school girl; they are running from their home. That is a bad sign, and I suspect it is a symbol that has been carved into the collective Polish subconscious from 1,000 years and more of war and devastation.

In the third drawer also are my first pair of heels. They are bone leather, stylish and cute but low-heeled, first worn the night of LBJ's presidential win. I first sipped champagne that night, too. I was 13.  My favorite leather belt, one my father made that I wore in my 20s, is also in the drawer.

My father's hand-made leather wallet is in the third drawer. Once a common thief stole this wallet from me on the MBTA. I was distracted and the thief reached inside my pocket book, and removed my wallet, my ID and six dollars. He thought he'd found his mark: I was dressed in an ivory, wool crepe suit that day. Two weeks later, the post office returned the wallet to my address, with the following note attached: "This was found in a garbage can in Haymarket Square. No money inside."  I praised small miracles.  I have the wallet still.

I no longer look at these items much anymore; they are reminiscences, markers of where I've been. Perhaps they are markers of who I may become or where I may someday go - someone who shrinks from the shadows of her past. I hope to God this does not happen.

At night, the light in the attic is dim for much good work. I don't need much. The naked bulb will suffice. I can hear the patter of light rain upon the roof; up here, even light patter is magnified one hundred times. The aroma of wooden beams that lie so close to my head, the warm and wooly feel of the Kilim that I finger when bored, plus the knowledge that my childhood, adolescence and adulthood are tucked safely within my desk drawers afford me great and necessary comfort.

This room of my own feeds me. I need little else - water, bread. Wine, perhaps. Coffee, definitely.  I can take this room of my own anywhere - shape it according to my mood, needs, wants.

Best of all, this room of my own is virtual.

Copyright (c) 2007, Kathryn Esplin-Oleski