![]() ![]() The room hasn’t changed: the window looking down onto the garden and the river beyond it, a twin bed with a threadbare quilt, moss green walls, a white dresser topped with a menagerie of little china animals-a tiger, a monkey, a turkey, a horse. There are empty spots on the wall where pictures of my parents used to hang. Hugging my pillow, my laptop case banging against my leg, I follow her up the stairs. “You can get yourself settled in a bit and then we’ll have a cup of tea.” “I’ve set up the spare room for you,” Aunt Jen says, pulling the patio door closed behind us. The little radio on the side table next to the old maroon couch fills the room with earnest, thoughtful conversation. The piano, a mass of dark, carven wood, is the only surface that isn’t draped with fronds or vines. ![]() ![]() Gray light filters through plants that spill from shelves and dangle from hanging planters. We step into Aunt Jen’s living room, a cool, leafy cavern. ![]()
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