I woke up in a little yellow room. All I seem to do is go from one yellow place to another don’t I? The yellow of my childhood home (the best one), the yellow of his parents basement, to the yellow of the big Welcoming women’s center, to the small yellow space between the kitchen and back deck, that I get to pretend is mine for the summer. Each place sounds like a different folk band and all of them reek wonderfully various roasts of coffee. I have made these my temporary homes and I pour as much of me into them as possible in hopes that all the smells sounds thoughts dreams of me will linger long enough for me to call the place mine. But when my dad was trying to win my mother back, he painted green over the yellow while we were away on vacation for a week (it didn’t work), his parents painted the basement walls beige after we moved to college and everything changed (and so did we), and as much as I miss the ocean state, that big yellow home is vacated of any familiar face until September. I’m not sure what will happen when I finish my job at the pizza place for the season and leave the city, but probably my little yellow space will turn back into the space it was before it was mine. I’m moving into a yellow house in the fall, funny enough. “the sunshine house” is what we call it. (It’s raining today). And who knows what that place will hold, but I can guess it will be the same as the others. It will be full of me and then it won’t be. It’s strange, you’d think I’d actually like the color yellow by now.