Apartment 1525

The living room wants to be grown up.

It craves china and books,

people in real shoes,

wine and cheese parties.

But it is stuck in its college days:

old carpet with stains that never fully disappear,

frameless futon mattress on the floor,

sorority cups scattered across all surfaces —

mostly full of tea and water

but sometimes,

sometimes filled with vodka and Crystal Light concoctions

that stain a bright red.

There is no TV,

but there are stories acted out,

like a game of charades.

There are loud voices —

yelling, laughing, screaming voices

of energy and youth.

There are loud feet —

walking through, running by, dancing around.

Slip-covered sofa and futon,

accessorized with burnt orange and teal pillows,

UT blanket and bears tucked in at the corners,

unlit candles and old birthday balloons,

dried flowers in a coffee can,

artwork on one wall,

a string of Christmas lights on the other

that have never come down.

These are the things that make up a living room

where four girls spend their time

doing homework, talking, socializing,

catching up on their lives,

napping, crying,

eating family dinners and drinking from mugs,

reading books and magazines,

and gossiping about classmates and lost friends.

This is where we live

in our living room

when we want to be grown up

and when we can’t bring ourselves

to face the real world.

More than the sum of its mismatched furniture parts,

it is comfortable,

it is home

when home is so very far away.