Several years ago I wrote part of a poem for my sister:
There was a time not so long ago
when you and I shared a room, a common space
for the both of us to sleep and to play.
It was our room, last door on the right
at the end of the hall.
Half of it was distinctly yours, and half distinctly mine-
though all of it Ours.
My half of the room was decent, while her half would pass the white glove test! So, yesterday when she had the day off work and decided to come restore order to my study, (which was previously a kitchen) I was so very glad. 
Now, if only it would stay that way...
Now, if only it would stay that way...***I found the poem in a stack of papers yesterday while we were working together.
