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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The Room of the Unrequited By Roger White That evening, stillness permeated the lavender-scented room. Dusk crept through the windows smudged by oily fingers, The day’s twilight left a dull umbra on wall and floor. A beam of fading sunlight cast onto a fluttering moth circling fruit, glinted off the gold gilded legs of a chair plush with pink velvet cushions and seemingly vanished into the luxurious kilim situated on the floor. Suddenly, a clock of ancestry standing in the corridor droned proudly in baritone the evening hour and went silent. Outside the door, echoed whispers searched for raison d’etre, found nothing and went hush. Gradually, light turned to shadows, and shadows succumbed to inexorable darkness. That day, the parlor was beautifully decorated in the image of a pastel Monet. Filled with the gaiety of Spring sun, it was a living tapestry of rosy cheeks, pink lips, sparkling gems and elegant bodices. The crisp swish of petticoats and satin skirts harmonizing with delicate voices softly chattering strummed through the air like an ode on a string harp. Every detail was dressed and embellished for what was to come. Frosted petits fours placed on a white porcelain English platter. Succulent persimmons and plums exquisite as gifts from Gaia filled the threshed basket of Egyptian papyrus. A crystal decanter of sweet, red wine only vintners to Dionysus could produce sat next to gold rimmed goblets. The chair was draped in elegant, silk chintz. The hours passed, the door to the room remained unopened. At last, guests were excused. The hostess gathered herself, heart and emotion. Quietly and with dignity, she left the room, locked the door behind her and retreated to the chamber she had prepared for their union. A generation of years has gone by. The room has taken on the image of a still life in chiaroscuro. The decay of loneliness has withered the fruit, without seed and hopeless of bearing its own. The wine has gone from the nectar of the gods to the vinegar of the forgotten. The coral pink chair now cushioned in dust stands on brittle legs the pallor of ochre. Delicate chintz turned gossamer rests crumpled on the floor. The fingerprints on the window have yellowed. The light of a waxing moon brings with it the arc of a naked branch cast tall across wall and floor. In the corridor, the clock tolls the evening hour, then goes still. Again and without fail, the stagnation of time and memory repeat in light and stillness and knell. Echoed whispers of a voice forlorn by the emptiness of the past mutter sotto voce. Not a sound comes from the cool, dank room. Stale perfume lingers outside its door but dreads to enter, for this is the room of the unrequited.
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