The bed I built during quarantine still stands,
made out of raw lumber, struts and supports tacked in as I could.
The mattress was too big and floppy to move on my own so I propped the legs under the frame, bedding and all.
You were both young then,
too small to lift things heavier than yourself.
I made it tall so we could hang garden lights and tuck bedrolls underneath,
painting the walls with a giant tree that bore lights too.
It was our forest to camp in,
stories, music and games every night,
the dog down below with you both
the cats up above with me,
our secret dream ship.
You thumbed books, printed and filled coloring sheets,
giggling to each other,
sometimes wrestling or making jokes I could never understand.
That treehouse we made to sleep in lifted us high above the troubles of the world.
Ravaging sickness was forgotten,
the loneliness of separation never touched us up there,
it was our sanctuary in the forest of imagination.
I don’t know how the frame still stands,
screws are loose,
ramshackle supports distend,
you both bounced on it for days
laughing and screaming,
but it held,
it holds me now.
Our dog Bella has passed,
I sleep with the cats still,
sometimes with the forest fairy lights on,
cherishing this bed more than any other thing I’ve made by hand.
How easy it is to bring magic into the world when you have wonderful people to love.
