Coming of Age

Yesterday he moved his son's bed into the master bedroom. The bed is
small, a cross between a child's bed and the adult single he'd been
using for the past fifteen years, but more importantly his son's bed is
taller than his own. His son hasn't used the bed in over thirty years,
although others have: the occasional guest, the family dog, his wife
when she was still alive and couldn't take his snoring. But otherwise
the bed has stayed in his son's tiny, airless room, unused and
collecting dust on its smooth brown headboard and knitted
blanket.

Moving the bed was a chore. His own bed - a veneered, modern thing
from the fifties with a built-in bookshelf for a headboard - had to go
first. It took him all morning. First went the bedclothes, then his
books (which he stopped to go through occasionally, the titles like
friends who never leave because you can't bear to see them go), and
next was the mattress itself, a spongy monster that knocked over a lamp
and left him panting on the living room couch after he'd forced it into
the garage. The box springs were much simpler, which left the base of
the bed and the empty headboard. Naked, the base looked like a fancy
sandbox sitting on the bedroom floor. Its three long pieces cooperated
nicely and fit behind the extra freezer he kept in the garage. The
headboard he put in the living room to use as a bookcase. It clashed
with the dark, heavy furniture already there. Maybe he could stain it
to match.

His son's bed took less time; he finished moving it into his room just
after lunch. The mattress was thinner, lighter, and there were no box
springs, just plain boards to keep the mattress from sagging. He noted
with satisfaction the tall, skinny legs of his son's bed as he carried
the foot- and headboards into his room. With its mattress the bed was
at least six inches taller than his own, and it didn't squeak when he
leaned onto it. A faded, plate-sized stain was on the mattress, its
outline darker than the center. That's to be expected, he thought, then
made up the bed with a set of sheets he'd found stuffed into the hall
closet. The sheets had balloons in different colors printed all over
them, but looked clean and new. They fit the bed perfectly.

And now, today, he is just waking up. He's a little sore from all the
extra work moving the beds, and as he stretches and yawns he sees the
room is full of light. He's slept through sunrise, something he hasn't
been able to do in recent months. He cannot see his clock, which before
was on his headboard, but he's not particularly concerned with the
time, anyway. Sighing, he pulls off the covers and swings his legs over
the side of the bed. His feet barely touch the ground as he leans
forward, and almost effortlessly he stands up. This makes him grin,
even though he has to hold out his arms to regain his balance. His idea
has worked, and what's more, he did it all by himself.