The blue room

She kept a portrait of the pope on the wall in the blue room that had been my mother's bedroom. After my mother had gotten married, my great-grandfather had occupied the bedroom until his death in 1964.

I liked sleeping in the room, with its blue curtains and the cotton bedspread that my grandmother had sewn from two different remnants of flower-printed fabric. The oblong bedspread had only two side skirts: for the length and width of the bed that were not against the wall. Margo didn't like wasting fabric on things that couldn't be seen but the bedspread kept slipping off the bed.

The wool mattress, mixed with horsehair, was as old and thin and curved in the middle. It was like sleeping in a narrow canoe. You had to stay put or risk severe back pain the following day.

It was the most religious of all the rooms too. Apart from the pope's portrait, there was a crucifix above the door and a virgin Mary on the night table. Cast in white plastic, the virgin glowed in the dark at night.

Thanks to the Virgin, the Pope, the Crucifix, and the heavy bedspread, the blue room was the safest place on earth where to fall asleep. The great-grandfather must have have died peacefully enough because he never came back to haunt the room. The linoleum flooring didn't creak. Doors stayed shut. In the darkness, the Virgin would see me to sleep. The last thing I would hear would be my grandparents whisper their goodnights next door and then everything would go quiet. I knew I could open my eyes in the middle of the night and the Virgin would be there, keeping watch and that was good enough for me.