By Susan Golden

Oh, I wasn’t typical. The ordinary measures of success – big house, big car, big bank account – weren’t very accurate indicators for me. What I was sleeping on revealed so much more about who I was and where I was going.

Childhood: Sporting its rightful position as the centerpiece of a young girl’s room, my bed was a white, French provincial version, embellished with gold-color accents and a pink ruffled bedspread and canopy. I dreamed that the bed could fly me to school, soaring down the street, somehow navigating the school’s narrow hallways, and finding space to land in my first-grade classroom. That magical bed could cast an enviable brilliance upon an otherwise ordinary child.

College: The convenience of dorm life came without a choice of furniture. The standard-issue twin bed was a satisfactory support for a study-weary body late at night, a reminder of that point in life when a bed’s functionality, rather than its style, was its primary purpose. But its small dimensions posed a challenge with two overnight occupants, as one person’s face usually ended up pressed against the cold, grey, cinderblock walls.

Graduate school: True furniture acquisition began, including a queen-size futon on a sleek, pale wood frame. It was very trendy, but the comforting squishiness of an innerspring mattress was sadly replaced by a deadening “thud” against the solid cotton batting as I lay down each night. And its delivery took a yeoman’s effort to haul it up the stairs of a fifth-floor walk-up.

Early career: With my young social life focused on going out rather than entertaining in, splashy interior design was not yet a priority. Moreover, my frequent relocation encouraged practicality and, in some instances, frugality, like the simplicity of a mattress lying directly on the floor. Its mere eight-inch height made it challenging to get up in the pre-dawn hours, but it was cheap, and the ability to dispose of it rather than move-and-reuse substantially reduced the transit expense.

Home ownership (beginning): The purchase of my first house was duly accompanied by the purchase of a brand-new bedroom set (arguably Step 3 in the home buying process). It was early in my “living large” years, and my bed of choice was a majestic, cherry wood model with four posts that stretched almost all the way to the ceiling. Grandly dressed in black linens with dramatic floral accents, piled high with oversized pillows, it was my first iteration of a bed that was eye-catching and obviously expensive. I had “arrived”, at least in terms of sleeping accommodations.

Home ownership (continued): I purchased a huge house which included a huge master bedroom to which I added a huge sleigh bed. Its dark wood curled voluptuously at its head and foot, screaming decadence and wealth (or perhaps just a high credit line). It would elicit “wow” when it was time to sell the house later on. And I owned it now, proudly.

Career climb: Those years were adorned by the (initial) glamour of near-constant travel and an expensive rollerboard case. Sleep often took place at 36,000 feet in the cradled comfort of a fully-reclined business class seat and in the sumptuous bedding of high-end hotels. I even acquired several fluffy, king-size pillows from a major hotel chain. My own bed then oozed with luxury.

Mid-career: The materialistic bragging rights morphed into embarrassment when relocation – just across town – required an overstuffed, 53-foot trailer truck. I yearned for simplicity again. While in a temporary apartment between houses, I was comforted by the absence of true furniture. No actual bed, just a soft, lime-green fleece blanket, lined with a sheet, that I unrolled each evening across the floor and rolled up each morning for space conservation. Despite my age and net worth, maximal was replaced by minimal, and I was happier.

Mid-life: Deep in a swirl of life events, and in the midst of yet another move, I spontaneously gave away the yacht-sized sleigh bed to one of the moving guys. I was relieved as it was hefted into the back of a pickup truck, spewing over the edges and corralled by yellow ropes. Good riddance. I moved into the little condo and shopped for a twin-size mattress, no frame. It would be perfect for a snail-like curling up, a withdrawal from chaos for a few hours of attempted sleep each evening. But the bed salesman suggested a queen-size instead. “Room for two, just in case”, he said coyly. Surprisingly optimistic in that moment, I agreed to the purchase of the larger size. A partner did join my life a short while later. The adult-size bed was already in place, thanks to the salesman with forethought.

Pre-departure: I spend most of my days in my current bed as illness overtakes me. The bed’s high arches of richly grained wood form a headboard that resembles outspread wings. Its symbolism of flight is very comforting. My body is heavy, my head woozy, as life slips away from me. Yet, as I sink deeper into the plush mattress and billowy covers, I imagine the headboard’s wings wrapping around me and lifting me up, freeing me.

Deep in the night’s darkness, my clock projects the time across the way, high up on the wall, like a glowing red scoreboard. As the daylight rises, the clock’s numbers fade on the wall. Time is leaving me. The wings of my current bed and the memories of my childhood canopy bed come full circle. As I approach my last breath, I believe that my bed can fly after all. Or at least that I can.

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Susan Golden writes fiction and non-fiction. Her work appeared in Harmony Magazine, a medical humanities journal. She has lived on both US coasts and flown over two million miles. Her writing is inspired by her longhaired mini dachshund, who tackled every obstacle with zeal.