There is a quilt on the bed in Shea's room, Pink, red, blue, green, and violet, Lace and stripes and polka dots, White pillowcases with crisp corners.
There are books on the shelves, different genres, Stuffed in sideways and upways and frontways, old fantasy, thrillers, adventure, Smudged ink in their yellowed margins.
There are papers on the desk by the wall, Poems and Post-its and signatures, Cardstock cut into star-shapes Journal entries and unfinished sentences.
The closet is empty in Shea's room Cobwebs and dead ladybugs lie still A lamp has a cord around its middle No breeze stirs the air; the curtains are closed.
There should be music in Shea's room. There are songbooks, yes, but no hum of the heater No branch scrapes the window outside When a storm comes, the raindrops fall without rhythm No longer are things made in Shea's room. The colors are faded in Shea's room.
They say that there's something in Shea's room Memories and fragments and pleasant dreams They say stories came alive and still linger Seeping through the cracks of the wooden floorboards Horses graze in green pastures in Shea's room.
But I know what's really in Shea's room.
There's a year's worth of dust coating Shea's room Not a thing has been touched for months There's no Shea to be seen in Shea's room Since she headed for the hills and never came back There's no life and no soul in Shea's room Shea's room is an abalone shell The inner shine scrubbed away by disuse Only shadows survive in Shea's room.
There is nothing alive in Shea's room.
Just an empty closet And books And Post-Its And ladybugs And remnants