< by Jill >

Growing up, I shared a room with my big sister Ann. She lived on the right half of the room; I lived on the left. She slept in a whitewashed wrought-iron bed, beneath a collection of clear glass ornaments that dangled from the ceiling (my mother installed these ornaments to prevent jumping on the bed — it worked). I slept in a heated, one-tube waterbed that, like its occupant, wriggled at the touch.

On Ann’s side of the closet, heaps of clothing draped from the shelves, dangling listlessly like bored cats. On my side of the closet, neatly folded articles occupied color-coded stacks.

During our first few years of residency in this room, a strip of decorative wallpaper circled the interior, bisecting the walls at about light-switch height. As I recall, it depicted dancing bears with balloons. The walls wore light pink, giving the space a nursery feel. When we got older, powder-blue paint replaced the pink, and the dancing bears went the way of nooks and onesies.

The room has continued to evolve — today, the walls are milk-chocolate brown and the closet contains a mélange of musty letter jackets and holiday decorations. But no matter what color it takes or how the furniture’s arranged, it’s still my bedroom. It’s the room that sheltered me during countless sunrises and sunsets. It’s the space where I learned to live at peace in close quarters with another human being. It’s the heart-center of my one true home.