What I wouldn’t do to spend a night in my grandparents’ guest room

Even on the floor

With the mattress pad that’s too small

And rickety, warm honey, floating closet doors that bang whenever I accidentally toss a limp, sleepy wrist out towards them

Looking at the sage green nightstand

And the cream lamp casting a warm light across the coarse white walls and comforter covers

And the glow-in-the-dark stars next to the muted dried flowers

Wishing I was lying on the bed

Where I could look out the window whose ledge dips just below where the mattress is

Whose cream white curtains and wood sill capture the glow of the room in a familiar orangey-yellow

Against the blue night and snowy lawn

And the neighbors’ Christmas lights in the bottom left corner

Which won’t come down until a forgetful mid-May

By the rope swing and garden bed that act like a fence

And a sleeping black lab who is barely visible against the dead grass

What I wouldn’t do to spend a night in my grandparents’ house

Where grandma would wake up around 10:30 and make coffee and croissants and cinnamon raisin toast

While grandpa would sit at the kitchen counter reading whatever it was that he read

And they notice that while their coffee has gone cold, “Homeward Bound” has been floating from the living room TV since 7:00 a.m.

And they could look on the cold couch cushions

To see her alone, covered in a scratchy cold blanket

And ignore her

And dump the cold coffee in the sink

Before going out to smoke

I wish I could go back to the old house

I miss the Christmases that I used to dread

I miss that sacred ground

Of the guest bedroom floor