R.A 6, 11, 3.41

I made my bed as soon as I left it in the morning. Remember morning? When you leave the bed in which you slept in? Looking at it as if it’s permanent and there isn’t any other somewhere else that you’ll one day cover, in your fully dressed frame, flopping down hard in a scatter of blankets and pillows. As though the four marks they make in the floor will always cradle the never-aging baby.

I made my bed as the first act of cleaning that would organize my home. I covered the wrinkled sheets and faded outline of myself under the smooth and curt tuck of a black and grey blanket. It’s smooth, presentable, and dropped the stone in the pond causing the rippling wave of washing away. Of tidying and chiseling; of organizing the things gone astray.

I made my bed this morning right before leaving for a bus when my health rejected cycling. I made it because there was time, and because it would be a win to come home to at the end of a day of tiny losses. There were no clothes scattered on the floor to line up with the scattered thoughts, and me from the morning had a defiant something to say while keeping the present me standing while I violently sway.

I’ll make my bed tomorrow morning a little later, at least that’s the plan. It’s soft the sound of a blanket stretching in the air, a fistful for two hands. What’s not soft is glass breaking or the confusion around it, like the pedestrians running from a fire and the crash that caused it. That was Sunday though, maybe even a month ago, and the days and their schedules came normally with little but a tiny mark of confusion as a reminder: a small green car, a sick sort of green, there at a light while you cross-walk. It’s also parked, by your side on the highway, and cruising slow down a one-way.

I made my bed none of those mornings, but I started to recently. I started to when the glass broke, and in the confusion the bullet went through my heart swiftly. It died after bleeding out for weeks. I didn’t know it was happening but it did. It did. For better or worse: it did.

Tonight, I’m going to bed like many of the nights stacked up behind me. I’m not sad, glad, or frustrated. I’m in my bed to sleep, and there I’ll be to reach tomorrow.

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