When I was little, my mom tucked me in every night. I was all hemmed in. After she left the room (not to offend), I would improve her work by smoothly gliding my open hands over the sheets, blanket, and finally the bedspread. I straightened any creases, wrinkles, or bumps on the fabrics, ensuring everything was flat, aligned, and even around me. I could almost flip a dime, like a good little soldier. The only impossible bump to remove was my body. The final step was to fold down the edges of the top sheet—a regulation five inches or so—over the bedspread and just under my armpits. With my arms straight out and parallel to my sides, everything was copacetic. Then I started the minimum two-hour process of trying to fall asleep. (Insomnia hit me early.)
No judgment if this isn’t your priority or jam and not an indicator of your character or mental health or well-being, but I’ve made my bed every day of my life (unless I was sick and stayed home from school, and then of course, I milked it). I needed to start my day with a made bed.
Until Joey died.
I stopped caring about that detail.
So, John’s been quietly making it every day since.
It’ll be three years next month since my heart shattered, leaving behind countless lumps, bumps, wrinkles, crooked lines, edges, and crumples.
Yesterday, I stared at the unmade bed. I picked up a Sharpie and wrote on a piece of cardboard: MAKE THE BED, then placed it at eye level on my desk, next to my bed.
And so, I did. I made my bed.
I made it today, too.
Millstone to milestone.
(The morning after)