My Bed

“Beloved” by Simon Matulef

My Bed by Malachy Gardner

My family is used to moving. Catching a taxi after a ten-hour flight with nothing but eight suitcases and an address my dad’s work gave us. My eyelids taped to my forehead, head pressed against the taxi window, squinting at signs that read Nieuwezijds or Al Khalidiyah, looking after every turn for something to cling on to. Arriving at a barren apartment or house, save for some basic furniture, with white walls and boxes upon boxes of furniture scattered over plain gray carpets. Exploring the rooms with my brother, envisioning what our bedroom will look like once we finish unpacking, smiling and running, full of anticipation of a new adventure. 

But I still don’t know what those signs mean. I’m not sure if the grocery store downstairs sells the Lays chips that I like. The grip of the doorknob is spherical and hurts my thumb instead of a long, smooth handle that I can wrap my hand around. The curtain blinds are thick and dark, shutting out all the light. The hallways suffocate me as I walk through them and I keep stubbing my toe against a wall that wasn’t there before.  

Slowly, the boxes reduce in number and the white walls and gray carpets hide behind portraits and a TV and trinkets that traveled with us. I lay down on the bed I’ve always slept on and absorb into the spongy mattress. It holds the pungent smell of curry and bakhoor percolating through our thick apartment walls at the sound of the nightly call to prayer when the Emirati man with the zimmer frame opens his door and takes his Quran to the mosque downstairs. It holds the sound of a cobblestone song in French with the smell of gaufres wafting up through my bedroom windowsill, fading in as the rhythmic clacking gets louder, closer to my bedroom but then fades out. The ceiling I see when I lay on my back at night always changes textures, height, and hue but I hold tightly to the lining of my brown and orange pillowcase and the round edges of my mattress so my bed stays with me.