I look around, taking everything in the way I always do. The first time I was alone down here, I traversed the room, stopping randomly to read, returning to the poems I liked the most. I remember the sense of calm that washed over me when I finally found the lyrics to AJ’s song, and the joy I felt as I read Sydney’s fast-food wrappers. I spent hours reading a decade’s worth of poetry written by people who’d graduated long ago. My eyes were burning from fatigue by the time I sat on the couch and began writing something of my own. When I left that day, I was in awe of every person who’d ever stepped foot in Poet’s Corner.
Now I take slow, measured steps toward the low bookcase in the right corner and flip on the lamp so it illuminates the wall. I never made it over here that first day, and over the last few months, I don’t recall planting any of my own poetry here. If I had, I might have noticed what made this spot so unique.
Unlike the other walls in Poet’s Corner, everything here is written on the same lined, three-hole-punched paper and penned in the same handwriting—each letter perfectly shaped, each word perfectly spaced.
Next to the lamp, I notice a wooden pencil box. I pick it up, turning it over in my hands, running my fingertip over the intricately carved swirls and waves. On the lid, I see three letters: C.E.M.
I return the box to the bookcase and slowly peel it open. The notebook paper inside looks rumpled, and with shaking hands, I remove it from its home and unfold it along the creases. It’s not a poem. It’s a letter. My breath catches deep in my throat when I realize it’s written in the exact same handwriting I see on the wall in front of me.
Dear Mr. B—
You’re going to think that what I did was your fault. It wasn’t. And this room didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, it saved my life for a long time.
You created a place for me to go and helped me fill it with words and people I could trust. It was the kindest, most generous thing anyone has ever done for me. When I was inside this room, I was happy.
If I could have captured how I felt on Mondays and Thursdays, and carried it around in my pocket for later use, I would have. Believe me, I tried.
You don’t owe me anything more. But I hope you’ll consider honoring this last request.
Words are beginning to gather here. Just think of what these walls could look like if everyone who needed this room found it. Can you picture it? I can.
Here’s my key. Pass it on?
Love,
C
My hand instinctively goes to the cord around my neck, and I squeeze it in my fist.
Caroline’s Corner.
That’s why Mr. B leaves the theater door open when AJ asks him to. Why he keeps this room a secret. Why he pops in every once in a while to vacuum and empty the trash.
He knew Caroline. He built out this room for her, hid the door, and camouflaged the lock to keep it a secret. She asked him to pass the key along, and he honored her last wish. He’s been doing it ever since she died.
Still gripping her letter in one hand, I grab the edge of the bookcase with the other. My knees aren’t feeling too stable right now.
Caroline Madsen started Poet’s Corner.
I take a step closer and brush my hand along the pages, as if I’m introducing myself for the first time.
These are her poems.
I read the titles and skim over the first lines, but some of them are placed too high and I can’t see the words from here. I walk to the front of the room, grab the stool from the stage, and bring it back to the corner, standing on top of it so I can get a closer look.
On the highest point of the wall, I spot a poem titled “Insecurity,” and I read it to myself. Then I move to the next one, called “Alone in the Dark.” And the next one, which is untitled, but begins with the words, “Alliteration is alarmingly addictive.”
They’re beautiful and hilarious, and the more I read, the more I cry and the harder I laugh. But something doesn’t feel right, and it’s not until I’m halfway through her fourth poem that I realize what it is.
I start reading aloud.
As I begin reading her fifth poem, I arch my back and square my shoulders, standing taller, reading louder and stronger and clearer, and it feels good to speak her words—to listen to them come to life again—even if there’s no one else around to hear how incredible they are. I read the rest of them the same way, in a loud, booming, confident voice, the way I imagine she would have wanted it.
I’ve read more than fifty poems, and finally, there’s only one left. It’s placed low on the wall, closest to the wooden pencil box, and there’s something about the way it’s mounted, with the black paint still exposed, acting like a thin frame, that makes me wonder if it’s special somehow.
It’s called “Every Last Word.” I read to myself this time.
These walls heard
me when no
one else could.
They gave my
words a home,
kept them safe.
Cheered, cried, listened.
Changed my life
for the better.
It wasn’t enough.
But they heard
every last word.
I cover my mouth, tears streaming down my face. It’s written in threes.
I read it again, out loud this time, even though my voice cracks and I have to stop after every other line to catch my breath. Sometimes I stop because I want to let the meaning of a word or phrase sink deep into my skin. But I keep going, crying harder as I read that final line.
This was her last poem.
And I realize that Caroline did bring me here, in her own strange way, to these people, to this room, knowing how much I needed this place.
This room changed her life. And it’s just beginning to change mine.
I picture Sydney, sitting alone in fast-food restaurants, writing the funny things she reads to us and the deeper thoughts she never shares. And Chelsea, writing poem after poem about the guy who broke her heart. Emily, sitting at her mom’s bedside, watching her slip away and trying to hold her here a little longer. AJ propped up against his bed, playing his guitar and trying to find the perfect words to match the notes. Cameron, watching his parents fall apart and trying not to do the same himself. Jessica and her booming voice in a tiny body, full of contagious confidence. And Abigail, whose poems are deep and astute, who had me at “As if.” Now that I know her better, her poetry no longer surprises me.
They’re my friends. And I realize I know a whole lot more about them than they know about me.
My next step is so clear. I leap off the chair and head for my backpack, feeling inspired to write for the first time in four days. I reach inside for my yellow notebook, because when Caroline was part of my life, she made me stronger, better, and happier. And that’s the part of myself I need to reconnect with right now.
I sit on the orange couch with my feet folded underneath me. The pen feels solid in my hand, and when I bring it to the paper, I’m relieved to feel the words flowing out like someone turned on the spigot.
And before I know it, I’ve filled the page with a poem for Caroline. It voices what she means to me and how much I miss her and why this room of hers matters, not just to me but to everyone who’s ever found it. And, while it doesn’t say it in so many words, it’s also a poem for my new friends, promising that from now on I’ll be a lot braver with my words than I was before.
