A long time ago, we used to be friends

So I lived, by the way. Thank you all for your expressed concern. Sheesh, witness to my last will and testament was one giggly school girl and a drunk (see the comments). There is a scene in a story to that somewhere... (You know I'm laughing and not really upset right? Laughter is the best medicine after all.)

On Saturday my mom, dad and I drove up to the cottage to dismantle and bring home the bunk beds that rightfully belong to me and my sister. They were our very first real beds once upon a time. Now that we each have our own houses with spare rooms, we all agreed that the beds would be better served here in the city.

Before the bed arrived, the room was just kind of a walk-in closet and holding space for stuff I wasn't sure what to do with. I just now finished putting the sheets and comforter on. It's weird, it looks like a real room now, but not mine. It feels like someone else's space and it looks like someone should be sleeping in it. I don't know why it feels so foreign, it's all my stuff. My old bed, my old comforter, my old sheets and my stuffed animals. Every time I walk by it I catch myself looking in to see if the girl who is supposed to be living there has come home yet. Maybe I'm still delirious. Maybe I'll get used to it, or maybe it would be better if I put something in there that I'd actually use, like a desk, it would feel more like my space again. I just never thought that I'd feel so detached from the Jill who used to sleep in that bed. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing a ghost.