His room

 As a child, he would look up at his bedroom ceiling at the stars his dad hung. They glowed in the dark, giving him a sense of calm on what used to be many sleepless nights. On his nightstand was a small lamp that went around and around like a carousel. It softly played the music of days past when they went to the county fair. It helped him remember happy times and not scary monsters under his bed.

His grandma made him a blanket he was wrapped in when he was born. It became his security blanket until he probably should have let it go at an age when it was too old. Something about its smell and softness kept it in his box of treasures and not the trash.

His bedroom was his sanctuary, with shelves filled with childhood treasures: his rock collection, model cars, airplanes, and, for some unknown reason, his collection of gum wrappers. His walls were covered with posters of his superheroes and paint-by-numbers he loved doing under his desk lamp at night. He had an old wooden box where he kept his comic books, some worth a few dollars, he was told.

Monsters didn't have room under his bed, but his skateboard and boxes of games did. But he was still cautious whenever reaching under there. 

His room was filled with his treasures and safety measures. It was a place he grew up in that changed right along with him. Over time, new posters hung on the walls, and his collections were mostly tucked away in his closet. Trophies were displayed for his achievements in sports and other competitive things he was good at.

In his room, countless goodnights and prayers were said, dozens of books were read until he fell asleep, heartfelt words were spoken, and tears sometimes fell. When it was time to go off to college, his room was always waiting for him, and with each visit home, he went back in time to the place where he grew up, where monsters hid under the bed, and stars filled the ceiling with light and a carousel went round and around until he went to sleep.

Mike  2024