Nighttime Room Vignette

Tinkling like that of a fallen star is whispered through the darkness, where I know my windchimes are being gently caressed by the much louder fan. Like fairy’s laughter, the chimes come infrequently, and remain a calming sound in the night. The noise seems to cleanse the air, and make it feel safe. I know that I will bring my windchime with me when I depart in two weeks. One thing that will remain the same will be the twinkling music that reassures me every night. Sound still moves, even when I cannot see where it is coming from. And it will still move, wiggling the air, even in Olympia.

Soft in my bed, surrounded by a cocoon of comfort. Fur-like blankets twisted around the border of the mattress, enclosing me like a bird’s nest. I am small, featherless, and possess large eyes. In my loft nest, I am my own sort of baby bird. If anything, I am most like a corvid. Collecting small things. Stones, screws, bottle caps. Collecting big things. Stuffed animals, tapestries, friendships. All woven into my oasis. A room full of memories. A room full of things. Some of these possessions will come with me, but most will have to remain. Stones only weigh down bags, the ones you bring must be chosen carefully. New collections will amass on the campus of green and rain, new rocks, and new bottle caps.

Croaking fills the tranquil space. Chiming in when thunder growls, making music with the sky. It begins quietly, and grows louder until the call eventually cracks. A chorus is sung by one, sometimes two, but never a full choir. They will come with me, to a forest full of many frog calls, although none are quite like theirs. The choir in my bedroom is far away from their native home on the other side of the world. I wonder if I will feel far away from my home when I live among the mist. I wonder if I will miss the dry heat of the summer, the sticky junipers and mountains eternally in the west. I wonder who I will find to call out to the thunder after the sun has set, or if I will also be a single voice in an empty chorus.

But that is not entirely true, I have to tell myself. The frogs call at music too, they call to even my own voice. The frogs choose to make music in their new home, no matter how different it may be from Indonesia, where their families once lived. The frogs know that music can be made with an amalgamation of instruments and sound. Even if I am a single voice in an empty chorus, perhaps there will be percussion, strings, and wind to keep me company. 

In the darkness of the night, surrounded by the depth of the ink-filled sky, comfort is not found through sight. When I brush my hands along the soft fabric of my favorite blanket, I feel at home. When the air begins to dance with the vibrations of tinkling chimes and heartfelt croaks, I am reminded that I am safe. These things will stay the same, even in Olympia. Even when I am far away from the comforts of all I have called home my entire life. I have to keep reminding myself that comfort and safety will remain constant, even when I cannot see the mountains eternally in the west.