Bed

Bed


Smooth lines flowing antique & asymmetrical. The light every morning hits my face in the same way, waking. But I always turn over—unwilling to get up. The softness of the sheets is inviting after a long monotonous day. My little sister wants to be pulled up, she cannot reach the top of the mattress. The dog does not attempt the jump; she stares with her old arthritic hips sitting sideways on the cold, wooden floor. I smile at her, she realizes my smile is promise of vanilla ice cream later. I lie with my head at the head-board looking up I smell rich mahogany. The wood smells like home and the mattress betrays the position in which I sleep the most. The dog sits whining at the foot of the bed desperately wanting up. My sister and I curl up sinking the frame to one side, creaking. I encircle her with one arm, the other slides off the bed softly nuzzled by a now content dog.