We changed the room,
After she went back to college.
It seemed the sensible thing to do.
We wanted, and needed, the space,
We all agreed (though she wasn’t here
to be counted. No need to include
the absent).
We finalized our plans, those next few weeks,
Gathered materials, established designs
And deconstructions.
We worked with a mechanical efficiency.
It was a three-day job.

The first day,
We pulled out all her clothes that were
Wadded and strewn like burst of flowers
Across the carpet.
We cleared out her CDs
Until nothing sounded from the room
But the scrape of shuffling feet.
We took out her nightstand,
Organized in the perfect disarray
Of wicker thickets,
And brought it to the curb to rot.

The second day,
We littered her floor with blankets of tarp
And empty trash bags and crusty newspapers.
We carried in brushes and rollers
And cans of paint thick as an oil spill.
We opened the windows as we worked,
To make sure we let out the fumes.
At the end of the day,
We had painted over her purple walls,
Left them sensibly white

And sterile.

The third day,
We made the room perfect.
We put in thicker blinds
Against the warm shafts of light.
We bought new lamps,
Tall, metallic things with twisting roads
Of cord.
We brought in mirrors,
Rimmed in a dull chrome,
And a desk, and a bed of springs,
And a trash bin, and a dresser with lots of
Space.

When we had finished,
We congratulated ourselves
On a job well done.
Everything was new and gleaming and refined,
We all agreed.
We surveyed our new room,
Its vibrancy satisfactorily destroyed,
Then closed it tight, waiting
For some visitor to stop by
And appreciate our progress.

Well, the rest of them are waiting.
But sometimes, when the others aren’t looking,
Or have fallen asleep,
I open the guest bedroom and,
One drop at a time,
Plant a tiny patch of
Purple
On the walls.

For my sister