That Room

You know the one I'm talking about. When you were looking at moving into that house (or apartment), you thought it was perfect. It gave you room to grow. That special place that you imagined crib, a colorful mobile, and maybe a rocking chair. Where you would arrange tiny socks and shirts and pants into tiny drawers. Where you would sing soft songs and read good-night stories and rock-a-bye-baby. The meant-to-be room that's all too silent; the room that should be filled with laughing and giggles and smiles, and yes, lots of crying too.

That room that feels so empty, and yet you can't quite bear to do anything else useful with it. Maybe if you just sparsely furnish it, you think to yourself, it won't be so painful. Maybe if you leave room for that crib and changing table, then you know there's still space. You're not giving up on the nursery you've dreamed of, just making the most of today and using the space you have.

You push those feelings back, thinking of when you first saw that room and how excited you were to fill it with happiness, joy, shining eyes and chubby little cheeks. It will happen someday, you tell yourself. It might take longer than you planned, but it will happen. You try to be hopeful, try to ignore that room - or avoid going in it altogether. 

But that room is always there, silent, empty, and a constant reminder of what you don't have.