That particular brand of toilet paper, Costco-sized bag of it half-empty and totalling the closet;
The throw sheet someone left behind, clearly not the last, rolled like a YMCA towel and tucked under the bed from summer's madness;
The brand of detergent, expensive and off-clear and unscented, mingling with the orange-scented pumice handsoap in the big gallon jug preferred by bricklayers and woodcarvers;
The ceiling fan kinked to spray air towards the body rather than the foot of the bed, the upcloset but well-loved bottles of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, band-aids and tampons;
I spreadeagle across the orthopedic clinic branded mattress topper and smell the lavender buds dry and fragrant on the windowsill, wrapped in a bit of lacy old hairtie.
Stains on the walls are expected, furnishing your own food in a fridge smelling of Clorox or moulding puddles is anticipated. Loneliness is too, as is homesickness;
but I forget: I may be lonely, but I am not alone—
others have been here before me and others will come after.
I am here to do as they, and like them I will do my best.
Here's to another placement, not-I. Good luck.