Bed

I have had the same bed since I was 11 years old. The bed belonged to my great grandmother, my Mimi, and it felt special to have something that, while not exactly an heirloom, came from her. She was elegant and kind, and of all my relatives, I wanted to be like her.

It is a tall, dark cherry four-poster, the posts carved with a quilted pattern and tulips for each finial. As a little girl, I thought it was huge, but it was only a full-sized bed with a mattress and box springs that made it too high for most bedside tables. In college, Jeff started sharing the bed with me, so it has been his bed for decades too. He repaired it through many moves—there was a special system of bolts and screws he created for holding the thing together.

In this bed, filled first with many stuffed animals and our miniature poodle named Chocolate, I grew up, went to college, found love, had sex, got married, went into labor, nursed newborns all night, read, slept, and yes, dreamed. I recovered from my breast surgery there; Jeff recovered from eye surgery there. This is the bed we tried to sleep in the night of September 11, the nights before big moves, job interviews. It is the place I grieved my parents’ deaths and many other losses.

Last summer, I decided it was time for a change. Jeff had warned every time we moved that the bed wouldn’t hold together much longer. I ordered a beautiful new platform bed, lighter cherry, which everyone describes as “very Zen.” It would take months to arrive, so I had plenty of time, I thought, to adjust. I was excited that I would finally have furniture that matched, like a real grown up. I would have a modern look. I would have something new, a beginning.

I underestimated how hard it would be to let my Mimi’s bed go. I tried to give it to my sisters, my children, but the truth is, no one wants a tall bed anymore, especially one that is rigged and a little bit wonky. No one wants a bed with finials that are easily knocked off. No one wants an antique that only has sentimental value. I kept the bed, dismantled in my home office for a few weeks. I did not have room for it there. I wanted to let the past go, but I kept resisting. Maybe I should save it for the kids to use later? But where? Why? I wanted to move forward, into a life with less loss, more peace. The bed seemed to be the key.

My neighborhood, like most New York City neighborhoods has an unspoken law of the stoop. If you set something out, it will disappear into someone else’s home. Nothing is ever lost or gained, it just moves to new owners: clothes, books, lamps, and yes, beds.

Last weekend, on the last warm sunny fall day, I set the bed out. I taped a sign on it that said “full-sized bed, free!” I checked on it that evening—still there. The next morning, I woke from a deep sleep in my new bed, to a slow, cold drizzle outside. I panicked—the rain would ruin the bed! I threw on clothes and went outside, and found the bed was gone. Ok, I thought. The the stoop and the universe have spoken.

It’s true that you feel lighter when you let the past go, release the weight of an object you have attached it to. I hope a little girl got my Mimi’s bed, and that she has filled it with stuffed animals. I hope I will dream Zen dreams in mine.