Went out to a friend’s for dinner last night, and we just got home. My friend is a chronic hostess; I don’t think I’ve been fed so well in months. May and I crashed out on a spare bed in her place for the night, and as I hit the pillow I thought to myself: Oh god, I forgot about real matresses.
When we moved here we did not buy a mattress. We were budgeting, and we didn’t know how long we’d stay, so we bought a foam pad, thin, soft, and malleable. We figured we could always replace it in the future.
Ten months later, our foam pad has dips carved where our bodies rest in the night, and we still have not replaced it. It is obvious now that we will not. We will only be here two more months; two months and three days, in fact.
Last night I sunk into this feather nest of pale green cotton, and May and I slept like dead and drunken logs. It felt amazing to sleep that way again. It makes it harder to think of sleeping on our foam for the next two months, and then the inevitable bumps of couch surfing and floors and whirlwind unsettlement that await us before we can finally start building our home again. I want to do it right this time. I want to find a place I can paint and push and pull and make just ours, just right. I have not had a chance to do that, yet.
