Tonight, This Is Where I Sleep

Tonight, this is not my room.
The walls are someone else’s walls.
The window is someone else’s window.

But look—here is my blanket.
Here are my two feet.
Here is my breathing:
In and out,
In and out.

The bed creaks in a new way.
Not like my old bed.
And that is okay.
New beds can creak however they want.

Somewhere nearby, another child may be getting ready to sleep too.
Maybe they had a different room once.
Maybe they know a little about how tonight feels.

I brought my favorite thing with me.
It does not take up much space.
But it takes up exactly enough.

The night-light is not mine either.
But light does not ask whose room it is in.
It shines for whoever needs it.

Sometimes I miss my old room.
Missing a place does not mean this place is wrong.
It means I loved something there.
And I still do.

My shoes are by the door—
not quite where they used to go.
That is all right.
Shoes find their place.
I can, too.

Somewhere, grown-ups are talking in quiet voices
about grown-up things.
I do not have to figure them out tonight.
Tonight, my job is to rest.

10. If I listen very closely,
    I can hear the house making house sounds:
    creak,
    sigh,
    quiet.
    Maybe this house is getting used to me, too.

I do not have to earn this pillow.
I do not have to earn this blanket.
I do not have to earn my place in this room.
I am here.
That is enough.

Tomorrow, the sun will rise
the way it always does.
It does not check whose house it shines on.
It shines for everyone.

This is not my room.
Not yet, maybe.
But this is my blanket.
These are my feet.
And tonight,
this is where I sleep.

Breathing in.
Breathing out.

Still here.
Still me.