I'm not in the room, but the room is in me, I thought.
It was a saturday morning, and it had snowed during the night. The whole world seemed to have been forgotten under an endless cotton blanket. And the sun had rained down from the sky and glimmered now in million little pieces on the snow's crust. I couldn't wait to go outside and ride my sledge down the steepest of hills, and feel the winter on my face.
Oh yes, it was a beautiful saturday morning.
Or, it would have been. But, from the very moment I woke up, I felt oddly cold...
It's probably just the weather, I thought to myself quickly - like if I'd come up with a reason for it fast enough, the real reason couldn't come in anymore and would just simply go away. Yes, it must be the weather, and nothing else...
But:
- Honey, you're boiling!
My mother had come up to my room to make sure I wouldn't sleep through the whole day. She said I looked ill. She said I looked pale. But I insisted that it was just the snow. It was just the weather.
- But, sweetheart, I could fry an egg on your forehead! she said. - No, I'm afraid you are going to have to stay in bed today...
- But... But I'm not ill, I tried to explain. - I'm just slightly less healthy than usually!
But there was no such thing to my mother.
No, it was the first winter day - and I'd have to spend it in my room.

Can rooms change? Can they become ill, feel sad? It had been my favourite place in the whole world. I had played there with my toys, red about pirates and strange creatures in the woods, and seen dreams of magical lands where nothing is impossible. But now the room seemed somehow empty. It was... It was just a room.
I thought I had fallen asleep, I wasn't sure. But the sun was now higher, and a little paler. And I smelled potato soup from downstairs.
My mother always made potato soup when I was sick. Potato soup was one of my favourite foods, and she made it when ever something was wrong with me. So I would feel better.
It wasn't my favourite anymore. It was "sick-food". It tasted like a bad day. But I didn't say anything. I was afraid that if I said I didn't like potato soup, she would then turn pizzas and hamburgers into sick-food too.
- Look what I made for you, my mother said, when she finally entered the room carrying a steaming hot bowl of... - Your favourite, potato soup!
She smiled. She seemed so happy.
- Mom...
- Yes, dear?
- How long do I have to stay inside?
She didn't answer at first.
- Can I go out tomorrow?
- Soon, dear. Soon...
But she was lying. I could tell. Like the time I asked her what I will get for christmas: "Is it a toy truck?" "No." "Is it a computer game?" "No." Is it something stupid, like clothes?" "I can't tell you...".
Yes, I was getting clothes for christmas, and I was definitely not getting out of this room for the next few days, possibly even weeks.





But what if the room would leave? Would I leave with it? One of those times, when my mother came through the door, checking on how I was feeling and bringing me something to eat or drink, what would happen if the room would suddenly slip out the door? Or, when mother opened the window for just a few seconds to let some fresh air in, what if the room just simply jumped out? Would I then get out with it?
I heard cheerfull yelling and laughter outside. All the boys from the neighbourhood were playing snowfight against the girls:
- Grab your ammonitions! We'll strike suddenly and unexpectedly!
That was Olli. He was the oldest one in our class, and everyone thought of him as the coolest kid. And he was. For instance, I once stole apples with him from the old man Grumpy's garden (we never knew his real name, but we called him Grumpy 'cause his face was so deeply grooved in frown it made the Grand Canyon look like nothing but a slope), and when we were caught, and when I was ready to pee in my pants, Olli just stood there calmly, looked straight into Grumpy's eyes and smiled. He never seemed to worry, not even when Grumpy said he would call our parents.
- This street is ours! I heard Olli yelling outside again. - The girls have the playground. But this street is OURS! Isn't it enough they have the swings and the carousels? Do they really need more?
- NO! the other boys yelled in unison.
- No...I said quietly to myself.
- They are despots and exploiters! Olli screamed
- Off with their heads! the boys responded.
- Off with their heads, I confirmed.
The attack was soon ready to beging.
- Now, does everyone have a snowball?
- Yes, came from outside.
- Yes, I said inside my room.
- Good. Now... LET'S GO!
And so it began! I crouched in my bed, squeezed my fists thight and jumped up and forward. Screams filled the air outside. Sounds of battle was carried through the walls and into my room. At first we were winning, but then the girls retaliated with a sudden strike from the side. I quickly laid flat on my bed, and hid under the blanket. The snowballs were raining from all directions. But Olli wouldn't surrender. I wouldn't surrender. WE would not surrender...
And finally, after a few very long minutes, I could hear the boys cheering outside. Victory was evident.
- Yes, we did it! everyone yelled.
- Yes, I said quietly in my bed. - We did it...

And then it all went silent, and the brave soldiers had to go home, because it was their bedtime. And my mother came in to the room to say good night. She kissed me on the forehead and smiled.
- I think your fever is easing away.
- I think so too, mom...
- Well... Good night, sweetheart.
- Good night, mom.
And she turned the lights off before she left, so I couldn't see her leaving. And I wondered what is left in the room, after I fall asleep. Does the room fall asleep too?

It rains. I remember something.

I remember the summer when my cousin caught his first fish. We were just seven or maybe eight years old at the time, and we spent that whole summer on our grandparents' country house. Our grandfather (an ex-boxer whom we believed could throw a man over the moon if he wanted) was a proud fisherman, and when ever we did not do something we were supposed to (like eat our meals or go to bed) he said: "A real fisherman would". And immediately we obeyed.
So, catching the first fish was something of a ritual to us, a moment when a small boy turns into "a real fisherman". And I remember how my cousin's face lit up with bride and excitement as he ran inside the house to show our grandfather the catch (which, by now, had grew into a horrible sea monster that he himself had defeated and captured).
- Grandpa! Grandpa! Look what I caught!
Our grandfather slowly put his glasses on, leaned his head forwards and wrinkled his eyebrows (after all, this was an important moment and required a certain ceremonious atmosphere). But:
- It's a dace, our grandfather said.
- Is it good?
- Too bony. We can't eat it, grandfather answered plainly. But, when he saw the dissapointment on my cousin's face, he comforted him by saying that the seagulls would love it, and that they would probably be screaming with delight.
But the seagulls are always screaming, my cousin thought. And this was his first fish. Maybe only a dace, but a fish nonetheless. A sad little creature, not a horrible sea monster anymore, but something he himself had caught.
So my cousin made a small pond on the shore for the fish to swim in.
And he gave his fish a name (appropriately Mr. Fish). And he fed Mr. Fish with blueberries and apples and salad and anything he could find. And every evening, before going to bed, he gently said good night to it. He was often worried because Mr. Fish never ate anything, but also happy to see that Mr. Fish was just enjoying himself, relaxing and obiously sunbathing, as it was floating on it's back. And it was only after several weeks when our grandmother had the heart to tell him that the fish was, and had been for a while, quite dead.
But my cousin didn't care. He kept making trips to the forest to collect blueberries. He even tried potatos and milk, but the fish just wasn't hungry. And he made a little shade for it out of sticks and grass, because it seemed to like to sunbathe so much that it might get burned. And every evening, when I was already in bed, I could still hear my cousin's voice outside saying: "Good night, Mr. Fish. Sleep well".
Because it was his first fish. A fish he had caught himself.





It is raining. And I remember all this. The water washed away all the years in between, and it is that summer again.
Sometimes I'm afraid that I am just feeding a dead fish with blueberries. Sometimes I almost hope I am. And sometimes, like my cousin, I don't really care. Because it is a fish I have caught myself...