The Pink Room, by Mélanie Faith

Up the stairs and to the right, past the Plant Room
where once my Aunties slept, covered then in Boston Ferns,
African violets in earthenware pots, and cool green paint,
just five Buster Brown steps beyond, in the new addition
nestled the room that was made especially for Grandma.
After her eleven children had left the nest, her reward:
a confectionary haven of spun sugar high-gloss and silence.

An antique doll with wide-open eyes and real lashes
sat daydreaming; she was allowed to recline, spread-center,
I was not. I was promised that when Daddy and I stayed
while Mommy was away for the birth of My New Sister,
I would get to stay in the big girl’s boudoir, the gateway
of femininity, yawning pretty and empty now that
Grandma was blind and couldn’t make it up the stairs alone.

Long I fantasized of lounging in that brass bed with dolly,
beside us, the oak chest whose glass pitcher had a red rose
hand-painted in Paris, more lush than any real one I’d ever seen.
For weeks and weeks, I crept up the stairs on Sunday visits,
but Daddy was always shortly after me, just as I hailed
my five-year-old body up-up-up upon the princess mattress.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in Grandma’s room
alone.” I was waiting for My New Sister, I was waiting to stay.
Always waiting, waiting for someday, why not enjoy today?

Sister came in spring, just after Easter, a light snowing, then
Daddy drove back at midnight smiling and beside himself.
“Mommy and Baby are both healthy, both doing just fine.
You, my dear, have Your New Sister!” then off to bed for me.
A mere climb up the tall backstairs awaited me, but slowing
on the landing, I heard Daddy and Grandpa laughing,
sharing cigars, shots of whiskey, celebratory. Suddenly,
The Pink Room, dim and lonely, I saw no hurry. I fell asleep
on the bottom step, comfy in my footed-pajamas, listening
to the cozy baritone of male voices, festive and strong.
The pink room, femininity, yawning empty, years yet ahead.