Bonne nuit et fais des beaux rêves

My bed is crisp. Its linen is a bright yellow, a dandelion pattern, hazy lazy vivid in a dark winter light. The dandelions are blowing their seed parachutes across the quilt cover and I blow into the air to see if their two dimensional images can become three dimensional. They can’t.

Get into bed my dear, snuggle down and dream. I’ll be right here, watching, all night.  No one can see you under the covers, but it’s hard to breathe; you’ll have to lift your head out to gulp the cool air, then duck back under the sheets where it’s warm. You really can’t stay hidden for long.

But still the dandelion clocks tick tock and time passes. Each seed spear is a dandelion second, moving backwards to other times and other beds. An Emin-esque thought, I know, but I never said I was original.

It feels safe in your own bed; even if it’s uncomfortable, still, best to keep a light on, always have a lamp, torch, something to keep them at bay.

My bed as a child with the nylon sheets and the sleeping bag under the quilt because the room was chilblain cold. My grandparents’ spare bed where we’d sleep on a Friday night, me and my brother. Tucked up in striped flannelette, cosy-tired and telling stories. The student bed, grime grey and casual-fuck pink. The bed full of babies, all yeasty little breaths and kicks to the stomach. A bed to share and shore up against the nightmares.

Be brave, if you don’t sleep how will you get through the next day? Don’t think of the strange beds that remade you. The crumpled sheet you could bear, but the wriggling, biting creatures tormented you.  That was long ago. Relax into the arms of sleep, feel the gentle rocking taking you to that other place. Let your nerves slowly unfurl like mimosa. Let go of the day, they can’t find you here.

Now this bed. John Lewis sturdy, regularly changed, respectable. A bed of means.

Of course they worm in. You are out of your bed, gasping for breath, trembling, heart racing, warning you of impending death, as though that is the worst thing that might happen.

The dandelion clocks tick tock again and their lions’ teeth bite. I imagine future beds and the ghost to be inside me stretches and yawns. Aesthetics sacrificed to function. The getting in and the getting out. The reach to the water and the pills on the side table. Becoming old piss-a-bed, the English folk name for dandelions.

You are so weary. Get back under the covers, your body needs to be warm; sit up though, so you won’t choke. Sip water and listen to the world service, feel the invisible waves bringing voices from far away into this night cave. Let your heavy lids close.

Then the skeleton of the final hospital bed, metal and uncompromising. Or the one on loan from the hospital so you can die at home. When it’s all over, left out and ready for collection in the indifferent rain.

Feel the tug as gossamer winds around you; its thread is endless and unbreakable.

But in the end, what can be wished for? This only. One day, if I’m lucky, I’ll die in a bed.

Something brushing your face? You cannot grasp it? Ah well, I said I would watch, not help.

Domestic Detail in the House of Dreams