Patterns by Anne Atwell-McLeod Late afternoon light kisses translucent curtains the way it has year after year, as familiar as the wallpaper I chose from a patchwork quilt of samples back when I couldn't imagine a time I'd want to look at anything else. The wallpaper frames a sampler embroidered Friendship, Love, and Truth: words that take on new meanings as friends come, go, stay and the books overflowing their shelves -each is relic left behind as a timeline of this room and the person who lives here. A life hides in a jumble of outgrown running shoes, the blank pages of journals too beautiful to write in, the empty windows of a dollhouse too precious to put away, a dusty pink boa framing a cloudy mirror, the collection of boxes, each housing a story, a memory the worn red collar of the dog that died, and, under the bed, a puppy's lost tennis ball. Darkness will come soon. I know, because it has every other night. I'll rest my head upon a pillow that witnessed a thousand emotions. I'll blink into the orange glow of the streetlight until my eyelids close and I dream amidst the pinks and blues of my past, my present, my room.