Rooms of October

The October Hotel stands at the end of a narrow street,
four stories of windows and faded red carpet,
with a vacancy sign glowing above the entrance.
I check in after midnight, when the lobby has emptied
and the elevator waits with its doors open.

Room 7 belongs to my childhood, where a boy sits on the bed
in a paper mask, waiting for the sound of children outside.
His costume hangs from a chair, his shoes beside it,
while candy fills a bowl on the dresser
and the television shows a horror movie from another year.

Room 19 belongs to my mother, and I find her sitting beside a bed
in a red dress, reading a book under the yellow glow of a lamp.
She looks toward me with the face I knew before illness took so much from her,
and for a moment I am forty-eight years younger,
standing again at the beginning of everything.

Room 27 belongs to my father that ended with a funeral.
The room has been left exactly as it stood that evening,
with a black suit hanging beside the closet
and a pair of shoes under the bed.
Someone has placed fresh flowers on the dresser,
and their color has begun to darken.

Room 38 belongs to the future.
A black suit is laying on the bed, freshly pressed,
with my name written on a card beside it.
The bathroom mirror shows a man older than I am,
standing alone beneath the yellow light,
staring out the window.

I return to the elevator and choose November,
instead, the doors open onto Room 7 again.
I try another floor and find Room 19.
Each attempt carries me deeper into October,
until every room contains a different year of my life
and every door bears my name.

At dawn, I reach the lobby and find the desk empty.
The vacancy sign has gone dark,
while a new key rests beside the register for Room 38,
waiting for the next October guest.