The Floor Of My Room

When I was nine years old, the floor of my bedroom was defined by severed limbs and bricks that made great empires. G.I. Joes did battle at the gates of giant fortresses, that my father and I spend nights putting together; next to old copies of Highlights and melted plastic. While spilt blood and mom’s handwriting lined the pages of life’s puzzles. Next to decaying VHS copies of the Wizard Of Oz that was never rewound all the way. While the grey carpet grew like wild jungle or thick swamp, that G.I. Joe had to trudge through to get to these fortresses. Taking cover in instruction manuals that dad read allowed and got frustrated with. While his forehead crinkled, and sweated, looking with ageless eyes, before saying, “I am too tired honey I think I am going to bed.” And I would do the same, unknotting the sheets that Mom folded and creased in eloquent patterns that defined her.
While great waves crashed downstairs, in swirling whirl-pools and riptides carrying with it, the bones of sunken ships and mollusks that I read about in so many Marine-Life books, that faintly reminded me of the sound of a broken plate, a curse word or a slammed door. I was in my bed, aboard my ship and it was safe. Afloat a sea of green sweat pants and purple sweat shirts, with faded writing on the side, because they were my cousin Nicks and they still smelled like him, while he slept a bed below me. In these moments, I knew this was paradise.

When I was fifteen the floor of my bedroom was defined by severed limbs and ink stains. As volumes of my poetry that began with lines like, “life is an empty jar” and sat next to a growing CD collection, of music dad might listen to, if he were a little cooler. Near a boom box that was always playing and constantly asked to be turned down. While mom’s eyes looked too tired to fight, “Work was tough today, I have a headache, keep it down…please” While her voice was thin and shaky, like her hair or her lips. While shut doors signaled a time for magazines, magazines with glossy covers and words like, Gent printed across the top; that were hidden under a pile of Highlights, next to the copy of The Wizard of Oz, still not rewound and even more aged, while a jar of Vaseline sat with its lid loose. While Dad, who’s Vaseline it was, came home at dinner, slouching, staring at his dinner plate and saying, “I’d help you with your homework honey, but I am too tired, maybe mommy could help.”
At night, I would undo the bed sheets that mom meticulously knotted into elaborate patterns, with their folds, creases and valleys. While the smell of a fresh coat of paint, that dad hated and mom needed, lulled me to sleep at night. Like the whale songs that shook the walls of my bedroom an I read about in books, which sounded vaguely like an argument and might have been. Nick was long gone at this point, though his sweat pants were still here, sitting in the corner, next to a note he left me, that said “I love you, take care,” that was signed with a finger print a high school diploma and distance.

When I was twenty the floor of my bedroom was defined by severed limbs, not mine however, my Grandmothers. As her respirator lay against my wall, while her crumpled body sat on my bed wheezing, while she told me not to smoke because after-all look at her. And my poetry still lined the floor, with opening lines like, “The deep-set lines of my fathers face” marked with my professors red pens, brought home to show mom because it was the holiday season. These sat next to old Lego’s I had rediscovered and played with, with my girlfriend Christina, whose Panties were in my drawer. Sitting since that summer, on top of a round circle from where the Vaseline stained, next to the Highlights magazine and the Gent, which Christina thought was funny. At the door mom knocks. Her hair is thinner her, lips pale, her bony hands wrapped around a soda. “Dinner soon,” she says, looking at us with her green eyes, red, spastic and proud because I was in college.
At night I undid the pillows of the couch, holding my girlfriend close, watching TV. Grandma slept soundly in my bed, while the television drowned out the sound of my parents fighting. Their voices were muffled by their bedroom doors, carrying into the living room, where we were. This was just across the hall. Their voices reminded me of typhoons, ships cannons and explosions. While Christina whispers,
“Why don’t they just get a divorce?” And I whisper back,
“Because they are afraid.” Not really thinking about it. I sighed and played with her hair. knowing I was a log or a severed limb floating out to sea.