The room is dark during the day. A small sliver of sunshine sneaking between the curtains is the only light we have. We whisper in the dark, sitting snugly next to each other.
Bits of stories.
Advice.
Information.
The sliver of sunlight has long faded when she comes in the room. We watch silently as she kicks off her flip flop, drops her clothes in a pile on the floor, and changes into an old t-shirt and pajama pants. She flops on the bed and looks around the room. Light from the lamp with the purple shade illuminates her face.
We always know what kind of day she had out in the world by what she does next:
On rough days, she heads to the shelves on the left, and reaches for something light and fluffy.
On good days, she walks across the room to the the shelves by the closet - usually pulling a journal and pen out of the cabinet on her way back to the bed.
On days she has been to class, she pulls out heavy tomes from shelves on the right, and scatters them across the bed. Notebook directly in front of her, she makes notes and highlights, occasionally reading something in a whisper we can barely hear.
On days when her head is pounding and she needs to escape from the pain (and the world around her), she angles the purple shade away from her face and reaches for a stack sitting on the desk beside the bed.
Cuddling under the covers, she reads until we see the sliver of light sneaking again between the curtains, and then falls into a deep sleep.
We keep watch over her room during the day, and keep her company late into the night. She loves us, and we love her. We know all her moods and secrets. We want nothing more than to be held gently as we share our stories and knowledge and advice. We are her books, and the best friends she has ever had.
The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.”
Tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness.