text: A/N: inspired by Your room is still pink. Or purple, as your father says. He says he didn't want a “stereotypical” color for you, but I think he just wanted to confuse the relatives. You should’ve seen his face when nobody knew what to guess. Today the windows are open and the sky is finally clear. I always liked this rocking chair. So your father helped me put it here. This spot, he insisted, had the perfect view. And he’s right, you know. Your room doesn’t have any bookshelves because we were worried they’d fall. As it turned out, you didn't leave many books behind. Stacked on the dresser are the ones I read to you. When I read out loud, I always wondered if you were listening. There was one about a mouse and a cookie. Another one was about the boy whose bedroom became a forest. He made friends with those wild things in that jungle. Do you remember them? On the corner of the table are my own books. I read here too. Sitting on the rocking chair, I’d read to you first. But since I never felt like leaving, I ended up bringing my books too. There’s something calming about this room. Next to the books are the CDs I'd play. Your father said they'd help you get smarter. One hour a day, Mozart, Beethoven, and Haydn took turns performing. Sometimes I think you kicked to the beat. Could you hear them? Or was that just my wishful thinking? These shoes my mother knit for you are still in the dresser drawers. There are little yellow ones with flowers on top and bright red ones lined with white. Your grandmother is amazing, right? She even made you a couple stuffed animals. I tried to learn too. Really. But the purple shoe I knit looked more like a mitten. And if I stand up, I'll see the clothes you left. I'm still keeping them you know. Small white shirts that fit nobody else, little grey pajamas gathering dust. Look, that tiger onesie is still here too! The colors are bright and the cloth is soft. Would you have liked it? Your bed is still by the door. We wanted to check on you as often as we could. But all that's left is the thin green blanket folded under your pillow. There's dust here too - I guess these sheets should really be put away. From the corner of my eye, I see the photo album on the floor. I must have left it there last time I visited. This picture here wasn't too many months ago. I remember how excited we were for you. How nice would it be if you'd left a picture too. I run my hand along the crib you never used and take in the room you left behind. But today I came to say goodbye. There are boxes to fill and rooms to clean. I'll keep your slippers and your books. The brand new toys will go on top. And to fill in the rest, I'll use your blanket. The crib, however, goes to someone new. I hope that's okay with you. I'll take a break and look outside. Even the birds are building their nests. Your father and I are simply doing the same. He'll help me seal this plain brown box. Sealing away the memories you never had. We'll lift it together - it'll be lighter once we're moving. After one last look around, we'll take it out the door. Then we'll drive towards the clear blue sky. Away from the birds and away from the house. Away from the room *we* left behind.