The property lines used to be clear. My room, her room, red carpet my side,
blue-green on hers. The triangle shape in the middle of the two was our Switzerland,
the neutral area that created our separate spaces.
During this time, the time of two carpets, Sarah's bed leaned against the wall,
originally built long before my parents moved in, to divide one large room into
two smaller ones; probably the result of some now long forgotten sibling war.
My bed sat parallel to the doorway.
We were young then, I, only 9, she, the tender age of 7. My room was filled
with books, hers with "My Little Ponies". Sure, we shared. Sarah would
sneak into my room and steal my Baby Sitter's Club books, and I was known to
wander onto her territory to help her decorate the Pony Palace. We lived a peaceful
life of separate togetherness.
Then my Mom and Dad decided to redecorate our sanctuaries. My red-tinted room
turned into a pink cotton candy paradise, with Precious Moments wallpaper and
curtains that drenched my room in a rose hue. Sarah's room was revitalized with
a new bedspread and carpets, complimenting the wood paneling that survived the
remodeling. Our old carpet was stripped violently, years of dust flying about
our rooms and in its place, a sea of pink settled. The two colors became one;
our lines were erased.
When the carpet guys left, Sarah found her bed moved to the opposite wall, parallel
to mine. Instead of demanding it moved, she decided it would work well in the
new spot. Now she could face me. Our two rooms had never been more like one.
As our rooms changed, we changed. We brought our the Barbies, the tiny, humanesque
animal dolls, the homemade radio shows that would entertain us late into the
night. Our room arrangements haven't changed in 12 years, and we still share
the little property we own.
And the carpet is still pink.