Sunday Scribblings ..... Bed
This bed is an old bed now, yet it was not my bridal bed. For the first few months of our marriage, we slept in what had once been my Grandmother’s bed, arranging ourselves between the springs and lumps, and falling together happily into the well in the middle, shaped by years of single-body use. Then we bought this bed, orthopedic, modern, solid, and it served us a long time. We learnt to make love in this bed, really, over years and years, and then we learnt to be alone in this bed, too. I have lonely nights now, but none so lonely as those last nights we shared this bed.
Sometimes, I wake and there is a breath on my shoulder, and I think it is you. It’s just a draught, just some movement of air, but it reminds me of other nights. I have moved into the middle of the bed, now, begun to create a furrow like my Grandmother’s furrow. On hot nights, I lie spreadeagled, aware that my arms are stretched on “your” pillow.
I stripped my bed this morning, - blue Egyptian cotton sheets gone to the wash, freshly ironed cream Egyptian cotton sheets waiting to be laid across its surface. – My new indulgence, smooth, cool, beautiful sheets under fluffy duvets. But new sheets don’t make it a new bed. This bed holds memories, memories of all our nights and days together, and if I haven’t replaced it by now, it’s because there’s something I’m not wanting to let go of in it. There are memories of the three weeks it was my haven, holding and supporting me while my body and my womb fought out the battle to decide whether my baby would get to live. My womb won. My baby won. We won that time. This bed is the scene of victory, of passion and love, of sorrow and pain. This bed has given its all. Maybe next week, or next month, the replacement will be found. A bed with no memories. A bed with no story. A new bed, a place to begin to grow again.
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