(I wrote this when a friend got married at a very young age) The Room Tidy, almost coldly so, seemingly empty, her childhood room rests with its door unlocked and open to the not-so-distant past. Among the things which she has left behind to adorn her unused room are inexpensive perfumes and beaded bracelets (now too small). And hidden deep on shelves are found forgotten grown-up dreams. The desk is there with unlighted lamp: pens and pencils ready, but they sit idle as do the papers, neatly layered, but not used. Books once read, which she cannot forget, lie closed and side by side. The bed is trim, with pillows fluffed and bedspread flat; the sheets between are clean and cool, inviting. But she cannot return, although she still remembers and comes to visit her unused room. She is gone to her own home, to her own family cares. Someday she too will leave a special door wide open. She too will dust a certain dresser-top. And when the time arrives, she too will miss her grown child, even more than she imagines so.