I lie on this twin bed.

Now my marital bed, once my sister-in-law's... who is now 32.

Hundreds of fluffy white clouds parade the blue wallpapered walls.

Teenage posters and album covers, faces of the famous, hang before me. Some sag and buckle with the weariness of time. Smears of blue tack streak from their corners.

A dejected pine bookcase stands opposite me.

Once proud, I'm sure, it is now overladen with memorabilia and virtually hidden. Its eclectic inhabitants a smorgasbord for the eye.

Stacks of VHS tapes, CD's and books jammed any which way. Upright. Sideways. Angled.

Dusty teddy bears squish between floral jewelry boxes, fake roses, and shiny high school awards.

Random trinkets pushed into every nook.

Pieces of jewelry, framed photos, figurines, snow globes, glassware, a mug filled with pens and a Sheraton Hotel keycard...

Every bit of space accounted for.

I can almost hear the bookcase's silent pleas. Its desire to be seen.

I commiserate.

The central air kicks on. Swoosh. A gush of cool air circulates the room.

I lay back.

My husband climbs in beside me.

Cozy as two peas in a pod.

He reaches up and tugs the pull-string light switch above us. Click. The room goes dark.

This is our unraveled life. All ends open and ready...

I smile quietly to myself.

It is,

What is.