A Meditation on the Pieces of Home by Anonymous
BED
Photo by Leroy Farrell
Amidst the suffocating warmth of stale air that churned just below the surface of an off-white stucco ceiling, a cool blue pillar of refreshment stood its ground. Quietly, the structure accepted its abuse, and remained intact, dismissing the idea of old age in order to fulfill its duty. Skin chipped and peeling, its dark steely innards pocked its complexion and cooled its surface. Despite the injuries it had sustained it remained smooth and pleasant to the touch. In the silence of hot air, each night my restricted body would search within the catacombs of my covers for this steely skeleton. With drowsy determination my salty cheek would eventually meet and slide on the navy blue enamel guard rail of my bunk bed. Escaping from the hell gurgling behind the plaster wall, I would discharge the heat into the reservoirs of the hollow bars. Cooled enough, my mind would shed the heavy overcoat of sleep, eyelids lifting as sleeves slipped. Gazing through the blue protective shield, I would make my peace with the shadows below, allowing them to entertain my pupils. With swollen fingers each enamel crack felt like the basin of a river, and pushing them forward like little boats they would follow the rivulets, searching for the dam. Sure of the strength of the grain and the forged metal, I would lower myself, breath sucked and head turned to the side, between the window and bed. Crouching, I would assess my options. The bottom bunk was like the extended bed of a Ford pickup truck compared to my window box. There was ample room for many to curl up comfortably, but here my brother slept, belly down, curled up in the top right hand corner. His mouth always gaping, I was sure this was how he caught his dreams. If only I slept with my mouth open, I could do the same. I liked it better at the foot of his bed. The space around me felt more like a buffer from the heat, the light, and the noises. I kept near my brother though, never touching him for fear of waking him, but close enough to hear the heavy rise and fall of his breath. This rhythmic white noise would mask all the unwanted sounds. Matching his breath, we became equal, both insignificant compared to the shadows at play in the room. So with hearing fixed and one hand on the dark, chipping pillar, I would fall asleep.
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