The Writing Room

I’ve parked myself on the long end of a sectional designed in the mid-century modern style. It’s a shade of grey, on the lighter side. The cushions could use fluffing, but then again, a couch should look like it’s used. It’s suspicious when a couch always looks brand new. 

The sofa stands a few feet off the floor on wooden legs. It’s a comfortable piece, one of those first big purchases we made as a married couple. 

Its friend, the ottoman, sits in the middle of the floor, a resting place for candles, books, magazines, and feet. It shares the same light grey material and when you pull the cushion up, it becomes a place where you can hide things before guests arrive. The last-minute stuff that doesn’t really have a permanent home. 

The room’s height gives it a sense of being much larger than it is. 

The center point is a stone fireplace. It stretches to the top of the 14’ ceilings, commanding the room. Each stone is well-fit together, smooth yet rough. A small, perfectly round hole can be found about three-quarters of the way up. Some lost soul committed the cardinal sin of fireplaces by trying to mount a TV on this piece of art. I guess the stone didn’t appreciate it all that much and did what it needed to do to stop him. 

A white mantle decorates the stone. It’s not overstated. A black mesh material, anchored by three pumpkins, covers the self. Below it hangs three (plastic) skeletons, roughly six inches tall. They blow in the breeze of a fan on a higher setting, remnants of a holiday, not twenty-four hours old. 

While the fireplace remains dormant, so do the tools which maintain it. A brass set sits on the left side of the rock, patiently waiting for colder weather to return. They’re well-worn and were put to good use by a man I miss more and more as the years go by. 

In the corner, two chairs occupy space because they fit the aesthetic more than any practical use for sitting. Between them, a darkly stained table intended for another home provides a place for a lamp, two books and a box of tissues. Underneath it all sits the equipment powering every device we own, its blue hue indicates all is well. 

The TV plays a Christmas ambiance on a day when the high is 71, but that’s okay. She likes it. 

Across the room, six pictures line the wall commemorating a day that was put off too long for something out of our control. 

A buffet, once belonging to an aunt I never really understood, holds our stamps, tape, and an assortment of batteries. 

The hardwoods show signs of life, scratches from the dog, furniture, and the dozens of other moments that make a house a home. 

A curtain rod keeps drapes off the floor but has done so much more when water started seeping from the roof into the walls. 

The grey walls aren’t as drab as they sound when you write them out on paper. And in most spots, it appears to be painted well. But if you look closely, careless brush strokes have left their permanent mark.