The Light in Her Room

The light catches my attention.

I'm walking down the hall, heading toward the bathtub, toward the girls, with a tsk on my lips and a stern quit splashing, but I pause. I stop. Outside Penelope's room, I lean against the doorframe. The girls are giggling now. They're directly across the hall and if I turn around I know I'll see them floating on their backs, kicking, wild, water cascading out across the floor, but I don't turn around. I linger.

The light is soft-edged here and warm; it's bouncing off the forest, illuminating the winter-brown branches and the dry, green leaves, but it spreads out at my feet, rose-colored and filtered; it's streaming through thin, linen curtains; it's lighting up the room.

At first that's all I notice. Then the girls start splashing harder.

I turn my head to scold them, but my eyes fall on Penelope's small, plastic kitchen in the corner; it's lit-up and shining, and suddenly I see the room, her room, all dappled with light and shadow: the pink-and-purple quilt with elephants embroidered, the baskets full of books, the scattered legos, teddy bears, dolls, and dinosaurs; this is the door she slams when she's angry; this is the bed where she dreams, and then I start to wonder.

What's it like to be the littlest person in this family? What does she dream about when she's dreaming in this room?

Minutes from now she'll run across the hall, towel-wrapped and shivering, the boss of all that light and shadow. She'll toss a teddy bear into her bed. She'll scoot into her pajamas, shove Alice in Wonderland into my hands and beg for a whole chunk of chapters, and I'll bend down and kiss the center of her forehead.

The light will fade. I'll get caught up in the story and I'll forget about the room, but I think I'll always wonder: What adventures are waiting for my baby?

Where will she go when she grows into her dreams?