Virginia Woolf promised it would make life bearable, but it didn’t do much for Virginia––she walked into the sea years after having many rooms to herself. Or Sylvia Plath, who was always “better,” but ended up in the oven anyway.
Some might say that I have an entire house to myself. My son sleeps all day, and I have the run of the condo––but it’s not the same––all the things that need doing are right out in front staring me down.
Now is the best it gets: 10 o’clock in the morning. NPR on the radio playing Hayden, and a breeze coming in through the window. But I have cats, on me, in front of me, waiting for me to get lazy and they will chase each other, knocking over tables while howling, spitting and growling at each other.
They are the ones who need rooms of their own––separate rooms. But even this simple piece talks of them and their getting their own way. I’ll just tuck in my head and look forbidding and they’ll fall asleep, and I will have a semblance of my own room––at least until I fall asleep, and we all go into our own dream rooms.
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