In the great green room, there is a telephone.
And a red balloon.
And a picture of a cow jumping over the moon.
You know this room. You've been in one like it, even if you can't say exactly when. The walls are green — not bright green, the soft green that rooms get when the lamplight mixes with the paint. The ceiling is high. The air is warm. A fireplace on one wall, with the last bit of a fire still going — more glow than flame now, the kind that makes the shadows soft.
The red balloon is tied to the bedpost. It turns slowly in whatever current moves through a room at this hour. Nobody put it there on purpose. It's just one of those things about this room — a balloon, left over from something, still floating, still turning.
On one wall: a painting of a cow jumping over the moon. It looks like something a child painted, or someone who remembered being a child. On the other wall: three little bears, sitting in chairs. The paintings have been there so long the wallpaper behind them is a different shade from the rest.
There is a comb.
And a brush.
And a bowl full of mush.
Just oats and warm milk. The kind of food that doesn't need you to think about it — you just eat it slowly and it makes you sleepy.
Two kittens are curled up on the rug by the fire. They were chasing something earlier — a piece of string, maybe, or each other. They gave up a while ago. Now they're just two warm circles, breathing in and out at the same time.
There are mittens drying on the hearth. Red ones, a pair, still a little damp from the snow. Somebody hung them there to warm through.
A toy house sits on a shelf. Small, painted, with tiny windows you can almost see into.
A mouse lives here too. A quiet mouse. She comes out in the evenings and sits by the baseboard, and the kittens don't bother her. They've worked that out between them.
And there's an old woman, sitting in a rocking chair by the fire. She's been rocking so long the floor has grooves where the runners go. She has a book in her lap but she isn't reading it. Every once in a while she says hush — real quiet, to nobody in particular. Just the word, floating into the warm air. Hush.
The room is ready. The day is done. Everything that needed doing has been done or will keep until morning. The balloon turns. The fire dims. The kittens breathe.
So.
Goodnight.
Goodnight room.
Goodnight moon — sitting fat and silver in the window, the same moon that cow is still jumping over.
Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.
Goodnight light. Goodnight fire, mostly embers now.
Goodnight red balloon, still turning, still floating.
Goodnight bears.
Goodnight chairs.
Goodnight kittens.
Goodnight mittens, finally warm all the way through.
Goodnight clock on the mantle, and the ticking you can only hear when everything else stops.
Goodnight comb. Goodnight brush.
Goodnight bowl of mush — just oats, just warm milk, just exactly enough.
Goodnight to the old lady, whispering hush.
Goodnight little toy house with your tiny windows.
Goodnight mouse, heading back behind the wall.
Goodnight telephone that nobody called today. That's fine.
Goodnight socks, draped over the arm of the chair. The thick ones.
Goodnight nobody.
Goodnight to the empty chair across the room. You can just say goodnight to it and move on. Not everything has to mean something. Some things are just there.
Goodnight stars — way too many of them to count. There they are anyway, all of them, whether you're looking or not.
Goodnight air. Goodnight the way the room smells right now — warm wool and wood smoke and the faint, sweet nothing of a day ending.
Goodnight noises everywhere. The house settling. The furnace humming. A dog barking, somewhere far away, the way dogs do at night — not at anything. Just barking. Just to say: I'm here.
The fire's out now. The kittens are asleep. The mittens are dry. The balloon has finally stopped turning.
The old woman closed her eyes a while ago. The book slid off her lap and nobody picked it up.
The mouse went home.
The moon's still there, though. It'll be there when you wake up. Different window, same moon.
Goodnight.
Hush.