I woke up this morning missing my bed. I’d had that bed for 14 years and loved it that entire time. It had been a bed lifted off the floor with various frames and posts and it had been a mattress on the ground and in those and in all the incarnations in between it was still perfect. It was soft but not too soft and thick but not too thick. It was the perfect size for me and small enough that not only could I manage to fit it most anywhere I moved to, I rarely invited anyone into it hastily. Along with my bed I miss my cats, both feline and human, who so often spent time in it with me. It was ripped and stained but still fresh and lovely after all that time. I miss my my ancient pale gold and olive green striped heavy comforter that I’d gotten when I bought that bed, that had once been stuffed with fluff but that I’d ripped open and sewn into just a blanket a few summers later. That bed was my last link to a lover and supporter of mine, who has loaned me the money to buy it when I got my first apartment of my own, and later let me pay them back via design work. I miss the sun and the lighting that so often surrounded my bed, even when I lived in flooding basements. I miss the countless throw pillows and blankets I’d accessorized my bed with over all those years. I miss how that bed was always there for me.
That bed was my friend.