Bed is the most wonderful piece o' furniture ever invented.
In the village, we the children jump six feet high on it like it was we trampoline, we roll like barrel, and big brother tickle we and we giggle and 'holler stop stop, out of breath.
And in we big ole home in we seaside town, bed was where we play cards and Monopoly, read books. As we move into we teens, me and me gyal-friends gossip and discuss make-up, clothes and boys.
Me high-school friend strum me guitar on me bed and sing with the voice of siren out at sea, haunting, beautiful melody. Everybody at home thought it was the radio.
I make gifts sitting on me bed, and every single essay, from high-school through uni, I write on me bed.
In me apartment by the ocean, I lay on me bed with the wide-windows open on a Friday afternoon after I spend the day making the floor shine, furniture dust-free, bathroom clean, me done bathe and belly full. I watch the sky, listen to the waves splashai against the seawall, fall away and splashai again.
Sadly, sadly, I had to leave the sea-breezy apartment, but I move to another surrounded by trees. Me landlord leave the best bed in the world. Firm but not tough.
Lock down in the land because of covid, I hang the mosquito net in the afternoons after lunch, and listen to the trees and BBC radio dramas. I watch Ottmar Liebert perform live guitar via the Internet as the night fold 'round, windows close to shut out the crickets-cacophony, electric-fan blowing to keep me cool, mosquito net fluffing like cloud in the fan-breeze.
Lunch time now. I must rise from this here bed and cook.
The other day, I see a photo of a man taking breakfast for he wife in bed.
Nahi. No. Non. Nyet. Nao with the squiggly thing over the "a" which is Portuguese for No.
One day, I might tell you about the Saturday afternoon nap. Nothing dramatical, only simple and sweet and innocent.
Stay safe and happy, dear lovely friends, neena xx.