I’m a fan of neatly made beds. My husband is not. Well, to be more accurate, he doesn’t mind a freshly made bed, but he doesn’t see the point in expending the effort involved in making it, only to mess it up shortly thereafter. Since he is almost always the last to leave our bed, it generally remains unmade. Somehow I can’t manage to generate much bed-making enthusiasm after work, so I suffer through twisted sheets and crooked comforters on a regular basis.
Then last week, this happened…
After I left for work,
but before leaving on his journey,
my husband straightened the tousled sheets
He pulled up the cozy blanket–
the one that shoots sparks between us
on cold, dry winter nights–
and plumped the pillows into a neat row
then drew the downy comforter
smoothly over the top
so that when I came home in the early evening
to an empty house
and eventually headed to the bedroom,
ready to sleep after a long day’s work,
I found our bed,
straightened by his touch,
waiting for me.
Sometimes a made bed is a love letter.
Molly Hogan (c) 2017