I have a bed I visit, on the third floor of the store, on crowded Saturday afternoons and empty Tuesday nights when the tears feel too familiar. Wrought iron cottage style frame, red patchwork quilt, sheets with crocheted ends, folded over to let the deep red fleece catch a breath of fresh air. Standing in front of the bed, my bed... I can see myself...
-- I am lying in it, high above the ocean below, waves crashing against the jagged gray rocks. I can smell the sea air, taste the salt, feel the spray. A chilly afternoon in mid-October, in my bed, between the glossy floorboards and rugged dark beams holding up the high ceilings. Cozy under the patchwork quilt, the only softness among the hardwood floors and towering ceiling. Centered in the vast open and empty space, devoid of daily clutter and tumbling thoughts. Light from the clouds, room to breathe, the crashing waves, sweet solitaire moments --
Standing in front of the bed, my bed, I effortlessly find myself lost in the future moments of calm and understanding. I have a bed I visit, on the third floor, on crowded Saturday afternoons and empty Tuesday nights.
