She was an artist; say the dozens of drawings tacked on the wall.
A writer too, whisper the bent and open notebooks littered with many words.
She loved fashion, proclaims the bursting closet.
She was one who lived to read, add the dozens of books crammed into the bookshelf.
She read late into the night, whispers the flickering old lamp on the dresser.
The costume wings on the wall flutter her fascination of flying, the decorations strewn across the walls and shelves laugh about her slap-dash organizing.
The messy bed sheets yawn through tales of sleepy school mornings, and the blankets covering the meager curtains on the window murmur of a night owl.
The crowded junk drawer and over flowing stuffed animal basket sigh about sentimentality and the inability to let things go.
The trophy and ribbons sitting above her desk crow of past achievements, while the stuffed nightstand drawers sigh about unfinished projects.

The battle-hardened soldier takes one last look around the old room and shuts the door for the last time.