Beds

I love the way my mom makes my bed.

She always puts the sheets on, layers the blankets, tucks the comforter, and places the pillows exactly the right way. The sheets are always taut, clean, and wrinkle-free, so much so that you feel guilty pulling back the covers and crawling inside, because you know that you’ll mess up the perfection.

The bed always feels warmer, and cleaner, the way she makes it. I feel calm, organized, peaceful, loved, when I lay under those covers– her covers, the ones she placed just right, folded delicately, without a crease.

She was trained in nursing school to make beds perfectly– tight, crisp, and clean, like hospital beds. When you’re a nurse-in-training, you make a lot of beds. In the interest of time and efficiency, your fingers grow practiced; you flow nimbly through piles of linens and cottons and robes. For each patient, every germ is erased, every threat resolved. Every bed is perfect.

When I make my own bed, it’s never the same. The blankets aren’t aligned quite right; the pillows are uneven; the comforter is pulled too low while the sheets are too high. The excess blanket slips out from where it tucked in against the wall. And every morning it’s destroyed and has to be put back together again.

Not so with my mother’s work. Its perfection lasts for days. Or at least the comfort that’s attached to it does. It’s amazing.

I love the way my mom makes my bed.

I miss her.

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2 thoughts on “Beds

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