The Nursemaid's Room

Lyrics

The Night Nursery is a deep, dark pocket, but I know the way out. My hand on the wall. The floorboards have names under my feet. Past the door to The Grandmother's Room, where the breathing is slow and smells like dust and peppermints. I walk faster past The Sick Room. The air by its door is heavy, you don't look at it. The long throat of The Portrait Hall is next. Their eyes are all watching tonight, silver plates in the dark. I am a secret moving toward a secret. I am going to the sliver of yellow light. Her door.
And the first thing is her dress on the hook. The white uniform, starched into a shape that isn't hers but waits for her. A hollow body. A clean, cotton ghost. It watches the room when she's gone. It remembers the weight of a child's head on its shoulder. It remembers me.
This room is small, the smallest room with a person in it. The bed is a tight white envelope. The window is a perfect cut-out of the sky. Nothing is mine here, but everything feels safe. On her bedside table, there is a music box. She says it plays a song from a place that isn't on a map. I think the music box holds a smaller room, exactly like this one, with a tinier bed, and a tinier dress waiting on a hook made from a pin.
She keeps lavender in the top drawer. If I open it just a crack, the smell comes out. And the smell of the lavender has a color. It is the exact pale yellow of the light that slides under her door from the hall. The sound of her humming is warm, a little rough like a wool blanket. Safety has a texture. Cleanliness has a color. 
Her dress on the hook. The white uniform, starched into a promise. A hollow body. A clean, cotton ghost. It watches the room when she's gone. I remember being held, or I remember the dress remembering it for me. The difference closed a long time ago. 
I leave the light behind. I'm back in the hall. The portraits know. I can feel their silver eyes on my back all the way to my own bed. The house is a sleeping animal, and I am just one of its quiet dreams.