Guest Room

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A soft, warm, yellow light lands on the small wooden desk. Tiny dust particles hang in the sun ray; suspended, moving, living, floating like the universe herself. The guest room bed is perfectly made; the sheets are pulled tight, and the green comforter is tucked neatly beneath the pillows. The smell of toast, detergent, and black tea tiptoed up the stairs and filled the silent room. Everything is still within, and the pine trees sway without. A blue jay chirps. I can see my grandfather, Roland, strike a match, and light his pipe. He changes the channel. The Braves are winning. A tomato sandwich on a paper plate. Remembering a late summer Monday afternoon at my Grandparent’s home is how I keep the Sabbath not just in my mind but in my heart; my soul. In closing my eyes and becoming present, I visit the guest room in me.”