The real windows in the room looked out from the front of the house, from the porch to the street and to Peggy’s house across the way. On summer evenings, she’d gone to bed when it was still dusk, and she would sit curled on the foot of the bed, her chin on the windowsill, imagining dinosaurs walking down Willow Street. It was a scary but delicious thought.
But her favorite part of the room was the French doors. They were covered with dark green curtains, and usually only one side opened. Still, when Mary was sick in bed — like the time she had the measles — both doors were opened wide and the room became part of the living room. Mary smiled, thinking of the lives her little room had once had. She imagined it as a parlor, with a tall piano under the high window, which perhaps had a pretty stained glass panel. The French door, without the drab heavy curtains, would be wide-open to the rest of the house, its dozens of glass panes sparkling. And there would be visitors on the front porch, chatting on a swing, which listening the sounds of the piano through the open window of the parlor.
“When I grow up”, Mary thought, “I will buy the house, and a piano, and a porch swing, and make the room happy again”.