What If?

I laid down on the soft bed in a spare bedroom and stared up at the ceiling, then sneezed. Everything was familiar in that bedroom, right down to the crepe myrtle that decorated the window outside, its brilliant pink flower clusters contrasting so beautifully at the tip of its small green leaves. I thought about the first time I saw that bushy tree in full bloom. A heavy rain weighed down its branches, and I remembered that I’d decided right then that I loved pink and green together.

It occurred to me that the only thing new in that room was the ceiling fan whirring in circles above my head. The little glass fan lamps were dirty, and I made a mental note to pull them down for a washing. When you don’t use a room, except occasionally, you don’t see what others might when they’re lying in that bed, starring up at dirty glass lights. Guests won’t ever tell you if the ceiling fan needs a dusting. Nobody ever notices clean. . .only what’s dirty, like fingerprints on a glass.

I look around the room, and everything was old. Not only old, but other peoples’ old, like hand-me-down, used up old. What if? I thought. What if I did? Where would I start? Could I get rid of everything and start over in this room? But I really liked that old cast iron bed. It went so well with all the other old stuff. And I did buy a new queen cover that I’ve taken a fancy to. It spruced things up a bit.

 The table lamps, I’m not attached to. What if I got rid of them? I could start there. There’s  the old wing-back chair I had intended to have recovered, let’s see, fifteen years ago. So why didn’t I do that yet? Instead, ten years ago I threw a duvet over it and hoped nobody sat down. In fact, for a while I stacked stuff on the seat so nobody could. I’ve held onto that chair because I just knew it would be so beautiful once upholstered. It’s on my list.

The vanity in the corner never got sanded and restained to match the tall boy, so I couldn’t put the matching tall boy in that room until I got the vanity sanded. Then it would, again, be the set it once was. And the room would be right, right?

I wonder at myself. Is life really all that busy that I can’t get those things done? Yes. They haven’t worked their way up the priority list. I have several priority lists. But when I walk out of that bedroom and turn out the light, nobody knows the ceiling fan lights need washing, the pictures once belonged to somebody(s) unknown, the tall boy in another bedroom actually belongs in this one to match the vanity, and I’m not attached to those table lamps.  And then I’ll die and my kids will kick it all to the curb as fast as they can. But as long as I draw a breath, I guess I’ll hold onto that stuff.