Which isn’t much, except wallpaper with cotton candy pink stripes and curtains with an over-the-top prissy flower print. The curtains have also been tied back. Perhaps it’s a subtle nudge to get out of bed. Between the color scheme and the flowers, I realize… This could have been my mom’s room. I’m almost afraid to find out if it is. The room is so stuffy compared to our house, which she decorated in old maps and photos and watercolors and warm shades. I can’t imagine her growing up with all this heavy wood furniture and cold classiness. Conflicted about whether I want to know, I climb out of bed and check the dresser for evidence. The drawers are empty of anything but spare sheets. The closet door is open and it’s empty too – except for a lone outfit on a hanger. I walk over to get a better look, disbelieving. When I came back up the night before, I took off my boots and tossed them on the floor. They’re neatly arranged below the clothes. Which means the ensemble is for me.
