spynotes ::
  June 18, 2006
3 guineas

Lately I�ve been dreaming of the three of us: my husband, AJ and me. We are taking trips, having adventures, seeing the world. This is unusual because mostly I seem to dream of being alone. It�s a state I get far too little lately and when I do get it, I often leave the others in the household feeling hurt for not spending time with them.

I miss my own room.
* * * * *
I am three and my brother will be born soon. My room is full of boxes because we are moving again. I turn somersaults the full length of the hall that runs the length of the house and ends at my door.

* * * * *

I am five and have just moved halfway across the country in the middle of kindergarten. They tell me sometimes I should be in the first grade and sometimes I should be in the kindergarten. I attend both and come home exhausted. But I love my new room, small, but with a view of the apple tree in the back yard. My bedspread is new and perfect (I have not yet had a chance to stain the back corner pink with an errant piece of Silly Putty, which I will never be allowed to play with again). The bright green with white polka dots and fuschia trim reminds me of an inside-out watermelon. I turn on the AM radio and lay my cheek on the cool pillow and listen for the Canadian weather report.

* * * * *

It is shortly after my ninth birthday and our new flat in the center of London is a wreck but I still feel like a princess in my new room. The building was actually once a palace, which might explain the ceilings 15 feet high that make me feel very small. My father is in the middle of putting up wallpaper he picked out for me that I love more than anything. It has pale pink roses winding across the walls on airy green vines that match the heavy satin drapes. Behind the drapes is a window so tall that when I stand on the windowsill, I can�t even come close to stretching my hands to the top before my mother shrieks at me to sit down. Mostly, though, I sit on the deep sill and close the curtains around me. I bring a book and my pillow and sometimes read and sometimes look out at the mews and the sliver of the High Street behind.

* * * * *
It is another house in the same town where I went to kindergarten. I am 13 and my new room has hideous wallpaper with fake cross-stich flowers but it�s new and in good condition and I have to keep it. The room is saved by the cushioned window seat with bookshelves on both sides and a view of the neighbors� pond. Sometimes I tie the sleeves of my bathrobe between the shelves to make a curtain, but it�s not the same. I miss my old room.

* * * * *
I am 16 and we have moved again. In protest I skipped the move and went to school in France where I honed my language skills with my French roommate and bought Army surplus clothes at the local market. I come home with a lot of black clothing, mother-of-pearl bangles, and an attitude. My room is already arranged for me. It is a small room at the center of our house, which is a relic from the jazz age. The leaded glass panes of the bay window behind my bed looks over a formal English garden. In the spring I can see nothing but magnolia blossoms. There are two small closets. I cover the insides of both with posters and fill one with clothes and the other with books. I come home from school, run to my room and shut the door behind me. I sit on the floor next to my desk, which I now use for make-up because it�s more glamorous, and I write in endless paper journals that I hide under my dust ruffle.

* * * * *
I am 23. After college and post-college roommates, I finally have my very own apartment. It is small and furnished with far too much ugly furniture (why does one person need 12 places to sit?). The bedroom is next to the freight elevator and I listen to the thuds and creaks all night long. And I learn to leave on Tuesdays between 6 and 7 when my next door neighbor -- the one who wears a dirty black trenchcoat and a fedora in all weathers -- like clockwork, has loud sex for exactly 60 minutes. I live a monastic existence except for my weird cooking experiments. Sometimes I watch the gunfire in the parking lot of the gas station below while I write my papers and read Greek philosophers on music.

* * * * *
It is my last night in my own apartment. Earlier, I signed my name hundreds of times to acquire a mortgage and an apartment in the heart of the city. My boyfriend is moving with me. Despite my exhaustion from packing, I do not sleep at all. Instead I pace the floors of my office, my porch, my enormous and strangely cupboard-less kitchen, my tiny bedroom where if I lie in the center of my bed I can touch all four walls. I will miss it.

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