I asked him would he build us a bed, a big one, where we could dream and love and where we could stretch in our sleep without our limbs hanging off. And we would fill it with pillows and sateen and comfort. And put nothing else in the room except for it, and two large windows that let in the morning sun. And it would be a haven where stress would vanish and the TV wouldn't buzz, only the ceiling fan as it softly spun and soothed, and the world would stay out.
I asked him would he build us a bed, a big one, shiny and dark and majestic. And he, eager to please and to work with his hands, said that he would if I wanted it. And it is beautiful. And I am the luckiest girl in the world, not because of the bed, but because of him.