Querencia. Querencia means the time when you feel safe. The moments, the hour, the minute when you feel content. A writer’s Querencia is writing. When they aren’t writing then they feel empty. Or like musicians and their playing. They probably feel guilty for not practicing their instruments.

My Querencia is the moments I’m in my room. Quiet at some times and loud at others, my room fits my personality just right. I mean my Querencia is in the outdoors yet also in my bed. My Querencia is the place where nature and structure collide. Where sand meets a beach house. Where water meets bottle. I love the gentle rocking of a boat. It creates a perfect lullaby helping me drift to sleep. As well as I love the chaos of people rushing places, hurrying, walking, and running so as not to be late. I love the tires screeching when coming to a halt and I love the shaking feeling I get sitting next to a waiting cement truck. I love the way pine trees lean out to catch me in a hug, the way they fill my lungs with their scent. The way I love how my teddy sweeps across my cheek and the blanket squeezes me just right.

My Querencia is where peace and noise join in harmony. When wave break on the hot sand, sizzling as another wave after wave join in this way. Then silence then the waves starts their cycle over again. That is the way I am. In me or in my mind, silence and noise help each other. They come together and intertwine. Even as I sit on my bed with crossed legs, the silence engulfs me in its secrets. My secrets that I keep locked up in my heart only to be let free in my room. No wonder my room as so many stories to tell. My favorite place is my room.

Why my room? Cause it’s simple not complex. It’s my room of peace or my serenity. Maybe because of the story that lays hidden beneath the carpet and the wood. That has soaked into the walls and become part of my room. The story that has become part of me so I don’t weep anymore. This story has left my heart broken and that give me an ache that nothing can mend for my dog. My dog, Jr, was the only other friend, besides a girl named Andrea, who I cared for most of all.  He is gone now but his spirit lives. His spirit is with me watching over me like he used to.

He was my watchdog at night when the darkness tries to creep up on me. He was my alarm clock that helped me out of my bed early in the morning. He helped me pick out my clothes. He was a shoulder to cry on or a tissue to wipe my tears when I was sad. He was the one that helped clamed me when I got mad. He was my only other friend all in all.

 Now you see why my room is my favorite place to go. To read, to write, or just think the room I have is mine for keeps. My room is my favorite place cause it was where my dog lived, ate, and slept. It has many stories to tell and that is why I call my favorite place my story room.

“A room is where I can be myself

Not what others want me to be

A room is where I don’t have to be scared

Or afraid

A room is where I can be the only person

 Who really matters the most

Me, myself, and me”

            -Briana Wiley