There, I’ve said it.
We bought the current bed in 1996 when Greg and I got engaged and we were planning our lives together. Neither of us had a decent bed, so we bought a new one.
New lives and all.
That bed has had a lot of use in the intervening years. …and not just for sleeping on 😉
Our first bed in our first home together.
The place where our daughter was conceived.
The place where we snuggled and read and slept and snoozed and connected every single night under a hand-stitched quilt.
The bed that I had to come home to After, and look at the indent where he should be. The bed that I lay in each night and hold a one-sided conversation with the vacant side.
The bed that still holds his shape deep within its fibres.
According to my chiropractor, after 17 years the bed needs to be replaced.
…and my left hip agrees with him.
My mind agrees with him too … but my heart is not so sure. My heart thinks that I am leaving yet another part of the old life behind; leaving a little bit more of Greg behind. A part of life that I really wouldn’t want to change … except for the recurring hip pain from sleeping on fabric stretched too tight over barely-padded springs.
…and so today, as this post goes live, I will be at the furniture store, trying to select a bed that has got half a chance of living up to its predecessor.
I never thought that buying a new bed could ever trigger quite so much grief.