©Copyright 2021 Payton Flood, Ryerson University.
This bed, my bed, under its pink and orange floral comforter, contains a set of three-day-old lilac fleece sheets, top and fitted sheet because I get cold. Under the fitted sheet, you’ll find a down mattress cover, the mattress, and a box-spring. Two pillows, one memory foam clad in black satin that I cannot, under any circumstances, sleep without; and one regular cotton-clad pillow for between my knees because I’m a twenty-one-year-old with hip problems. The bedframe used to be my grandparents, my papa painted it white for me when they got their new bed; you can still see taints of pale blue poking through the pure-white paint (I probably should have asked him to do a second coat).
This bed is not new, new to me when I got it thirteen years ago, but not new to being owned. Some beds have one owner, like my bed at my dad’s house; that bed has only ever been mine. Some beds, like hotel beds, see multiple hosts, but never an owner. Some beds don’t have a comforter/duvet, or a top sheet, or pillow. Some beds have none of these things, are none of these things, but are a bed simply because they provide a place of rest. For a friend sleeping over, the bed is the couch or the floor. For the homeless, the bed is a sleeping bag or the pavement. For a cat, the bed is the human’s lap or an empty box. Just because it’s marketed as a bed, does not mean it is one, and just because an object is marketed as having some other function, does not mean it can’t also be a bed. My bed is a place I miss when I’m gone for too long, it’s my creature comfort. Pre-pandemic, when I lived in Toronto, I longed for the weekends and reading weeks and holidays when I could come home to my bed. When I look at my bed, I see not only a place for rest but my favourite place to cry, to read, to quiet my mind. I see it beckoning me with its warm layers and soft pillows telling me, “Come now, it’s time to reset.”