Letter

That room...

13th Nov.2011

Dear kai,

My house has no proper address. It is a shabby house, burnt scarlet under the sun's glare and grown old in age with time. It stands on the curb, as if to symbolize the brink of death itself.

I concur that one storey- house isn't impeccable but it is 'home' nevertheless. Grand in stature, ancient in architect, it stands most dominants among its neighbors. The rooms are vast, lavishly decorated and furnished. My particular favorite is the smallest room at the back of the house. It is a room which many visit not.

It has huge French windows covered in curtains of a deep oceanic blue. The walls are white, conveniently so, as they seem to reflect color and life back into the room.

When you enter, it is as if you had entered a dreamland, where you tread not on a marble floor but on white, lofty clouds; that is how soft the carpet is. It consists of one bed, a dressing table and a book shelf. The room is filled with different kinds of toys. Oddly enough, dolls are nowhere to be seen. Planes hang from ledges, cars wait patiently to race in corners, a train chugs merrily on its track when wounded, and rattle toys occupy the dressing table, waiting to be shaken.

Color blooms like flowers in spring from every corner of the room and sunlight filters through the windows, lighting and spreading happiness all around. It is a magical room, one that connects our world to theirs.

None dare to tread inside but me for memories linger fresh. This room belonged to my younger brother, who left this world and became an angel too soon. This is the room where dreams become reality and hopes survive. This is the room in which I spend countless grains of sand, dreaming and playing. It needs no addition, no improvement and no accessories. It is perfect; my room, that is.

Yours sincerely,

Vyria