As part and parcel of the fact that my life is broken into various pieces in various places and none of them feel very permanent anymore, I have three of you, and will address you each separately.
Bed in Mays Landing, we’ve reached a stage where you don’t really even feel mine anymore. I’m just as comfortable sleeping on a couch in the living room as I am in you–the room you’re in is A’s now, not mine or even ours. Despite the fact that you’re covered in my pillows with my teddy bears, I feel like a guest in you. [I sometimes feel like a guest in that whole house; a crazy feeling considering it’s the best candidate for the title of house I grew up in.] As far as beds go, you’ve led a pretty dull life: you have had exactly 1 minor two-person adventure, one night when I was 18, my family was gone, and I was feeling brave. Now you’re rarely even slept in. Someday in the not-too-distant-future you may officially become a guest bed in a house that almost never has guests, unless I steal you to come live with me and be mine again when I need to have a real place of my own. We’ll see. Maybe you’ll get to lead an exciting life yet.
Bed in New Brunswick, you don’t actually belong to me, but rather to the girl I’m subletting from, so I can’t speak to your history of adventures (though we’ve had some fun times on our own 😉 ). Your frame is too big. You aren’t spectacular in any way, but you get the job done and I’m grateful to have been temporarily given you. You are very uncluttered, and our first few nights together being all alone in you was driving me crazy. [It still is to an extent, but I’m trying to pretend it’s not.] I guess our time together is about halfway over (hmm, I should change your sheets), and during this first half I have given you a lot of sadness, and for that I apologize. The rest of our relationship should be comfortably neutral.
Bed in Edwards Hall, you are the only of these three beds I have ever made impeccably; a place that required invitation, you needed to be presentable. You’re one of the things I worry about when I get into dreading September mode. [I’ve never dreaded school starting in my entire life. This feels weird.] This will be my last Princeton move-in day; part of me wants it to never come so that my last Princeton move-out day doesn’t have to come either. One of the reasons I chose to stay in the same room next year as I lived in this past year was to help me deny the fact that time is passing and effectively running out. It was a strategy to pretend that nothing had to change. But now…sooooooo many things happened in that room, and you supported adventures on the regular. Adventures and sweet whispers that I am torn between remembering fondly and cringing at the thought of. You’re a crime scene I’ll have to return to every day for months and months, and I’m scared that getting back into you will make me relapse. I’m terrified of places like you–things that felt like home that might now become thoroughly uncomfortable, possibly even unsettling. How can I lay in you without thinking about all the history?
“Every day begins with an act of courage and hope: getting out of bed.” –Mason Cooley