20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

This Room

I look around. What is it about this room that draws me? It was once our daughter’s teenage room. She is now married with children. The room is filled with bookshelves, which are filled with books. Ah, luxury. Our TV is in here, along with a white wicker loveseat, matching, large-ish footstool, a recliner, the computer desk and chair, the computer, the printer. On the walls? I look around and see mostly photographs of family. Two are large framed photos of our daughter’s and son’s weddings. Another is my mother, who passed away 17 years ago. Still another is a framed poster of the Verde Canyon Railroad. We took that trip with my father and stepmom some years ago in Arizona, seeing some spectacular panoramas. The poster is a reminder of a pleasant time.

A long time ago my daughter gave me a little oval plaque that has a little boy and a little girl on it. It says: “Grandchildren are the reward you get for not strangling your teenagers.” LOL. There is a framed picture of our son in his police uniform, a framed triptych of our grandson when he was small, with his mom, silhouettes with the sunset in the background. They were skipping stones into the lake. I have a piece of amethyst, my birthstone, on the shelf. Another framed piece says “WORDS are so powerful they should only be used to heal, to bless, to prosper.”

I have two rectangular frames, quite long, in fact. The green one has five pictures of our grandson on the day he came home from the hospital, aged three days. The burgundy-colored frame has five pictures of our granddaughter at the same age, the day she came home. I cherish those pictures.

There are two prints on the wall, a large photograph of our grandchildren, and a frame holding six of our son’s high school graduation pictures.

A lamp table, a standing lamp, a ceiling fan, a clock, white carpeting, peach-colored shades and window valance complete the look. When writing I always keep three handy-dandy friends at my side: a dictionary, my thesaurus (I have a really good one), and a rhyming dictionary. Without these I’d be lost.

I look out the window onto a hill behind our house to see pines, oaks and elms. A bird feeder attracts all kinds of birds, but I especially like watching the hummingbirds. We often see deer, squirrels, and chipmunks, but also less frequently raccoons, rabbits, wild turkeys, fox. In the winter our grandchildren love to slide down the hill. I watch them from inside where I can be warm while seeing them in their winter fun.



The Little Girl Is Now Woken Up

A sweet rippling sound echoing through the confined walls of the room, a girl wakes up due to the resulting disturbance from the sleep she was subjected to, the sleep- an escape from her pain, an escape to the realm of the dreams but now she is forcefully brought back to the realities of life. She is being forcefully woken up by the disturbance as a result of the rippling sound, though sweet, but a lot more agonising for the girl- whose name is unknown- no one knows who she is. She was just found in the corner of a street, her hair ruffled, her dried tears glistening under the bright sun. She is the girl no one knows anything about and thereby seen as a threat, she was confined to further tortures of life even when her earlier tortures are not known- she is facing the ordeal of getting confined, becoming a prisoner where she is given ample food and water but no freedom. This is her staying place where she lives but dies every moment; the air being lacking in the joys and pleasures she would have otherwise wanted. The little girl is now woken up by the disturbance- she is now again prone to the tortures, subjected to the pain- she now considers the way of her life. The little girl is woken up, the echo- the disturbance of the rippling sound, is now gone- disappeared in the air. The little girl is now woken up.



The furniture that occupies my mind
takes too much space. This room is not defined
by loveliness or style, is not a place
where I can live without the frightening chase

of seizures that move in as residents.
They hide within my brain as if in tents,
and I can’t rest in my own living room.
I feel entrapped as in a stone-cold tomb.


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