I have a thing with beds.
I like spending time in my bed at home. It is a safe place for me. A place where the world stops and I can just breathe. Where I do some of my best thinking. My best writing. My best reading. I feel protected. Almost like I am on an island and the world continues on around me.
My bed is new. Only mine. I lugged each and every piece up four flights of stairs to my apartment. And I put it together on my own. Every time I get in that bed I am not only reminded of my new life, but I am proud. Proud of what I have accomplished.
Today as I write this, I am in a bed. But it is not mine.
It is more comfortable. It is safe. I could spend hours here. I want to spend hours here. Alone. Or not. There is just something about this bed.
I love the way the mattress feels forgiving. It accepts the weight of my body. Our bodies.
The weight of the duvet makes me feel protected. A shield to the outside world. When I am in it, I feel like I am in a cocoon, and when I emerge I will be stronger.
The smell of the sheets. The smell of his pillow.
I leave the bed and I can’t wait to return. Later in the day. Later in 12 days. Never enough time.