Beds...endless nights and endless thoughts...

Three straight nights of twelve hour shifts. A body filled with exhaustion, confusion about the day, the time. The inner workings tangled in a web of daylight and glowing moons. The road becomes endless before my strained eyes and I dream of my bed, the plush scarlet comforter, the soft black sheets cooling my overworked skin. My mind drifts to other worlds, other places, other times, anywhere that will keep me engaged until the long road ends. I think back to the bed with the velvety Asian comforter, the one with the old, weathered mattresses, and the nights alone, thinking too much, crying too much, finally finding myself in the comfort of my aloneness. My mind wanders across two states and three condos, into rooms with skylights that made it impossible to nap at two in the afternoon, nights spent lying beside a man. A man with whom I shared a name, a home, a life. A man whom I never truly knew, who gradually taught me of the fragility of trust and love, of the importance, the necessity of finding and loving myself. Of the need to keep myself safe. I think of the aqua and gold satin comforter that covered the bed, and me, in the months when the depression was at its worst. When the medications were leaving my body, slowly, more day by day. When I hid beneath those ugly covers, hoping that the world would stop turning, that the tornadoes ravaging the city outside would take me away in the whirlwind of my own black spiraling tunnel. Days when I sat on the roof of that old Victorian home, pondering what would happen if I jumped into the busy street below. I don’t want to think about those days, all that pain, from which emergence was impossible. I have lived that pain, that hopelessness, and now I think of all the anonymous comforters, adorned with large, bright flowers, or paisley patterns of burgundy and brown. The comforters that held my traveling soul, offering me excitement in foreign lands, beauty unbeknown before the day, the night, the moment. I think of a bed in Santa Fe, an adobe fireplace in the corner, a beautiful night of eating chocolate frosted cookies and drinking shiraz in bed with a soul mate. A bed in New Orleans after a night of drinking and gambling, the romance of the city as intoxicating as the wine that flowed endlessly. My thoughts run wildly as I remember beds in so many cities, in other countries, in exotic or romantic or serene places. As I remember beds shared with childhood friends and best friends and soul mates. Beds shared as new friendships were formed, as new relationships evolved. As I remember the nights of comfort, of passion, of grief, of love. As I climb into my bed in the darkness of tonight, I will keep remembering and I will embrace the comfort of this bed, this night, these moments.