the dip in the bed

During the early years of marriage, it was hard to go to bed angry because of our sleeping arrangements. No matter what the disagreement was about, an attempt to remain separate from one another failed. Even gripping the bed’s edge to keep from rolling, invariably by the morning, we were right back together.

Still upset. Still mad, but we didn’t have a choice.

Thanks to the dip in the bed.

Worn out over time, it beckoned us together.

Regardless.

Our first mattress together was a combination set. The good part of his (the box springs) and the best part of mine (the comfort layer) joined together in holy matrimony. Of course, it was only a full-size bed, and then it was more than enough.

Later in life, as our physiques expanded and changed, we upgraded to a queen-size handmade mattress, a product of Georgia. It fit perfectly in a queen-size black lacquered bedroom suite, a trade from a cousin. I don’t remember what I received in return.

The mattress, however, lasted well over five years. The black suite went to a friend’s daughter, a trade for a wrought iron daybed that eventually went into a spare room.

For a couple of months, we slept on a mattress on the floor of our new Baltimore apartment when I determined that crawling from the floor was not for a couple somewhere in their mid-thirties. One day, I marched to Haverty’s and invested in a cherry wood home for the mattresses. Eventually, we purchased a much firmer mattress to go with the suite, spent a whole afternoon in the store, laying atop and rolling from side to side.

Today, that old mattress is well past its prime. We keep saying that we’ll get a new one, but other life obligations seem to get in the way.

Visits back home with my cousin give some relief. Her mattress is magical. Soft and cozy, it conforms to the fit of our bodies; an easy lull to Lala land without the magnetic pull to the center in the dip in the bed.

Most mornings, she asks, “how did we sleep?”

“Wonderful,” we say.

“Did you get cold?”

“No.”

“Did you hear the rain?”

“What rain?”

“Did you hear the plane?”

“What plane?”

“Was my TV too loud?”

“TV?”

In her bed, somehow, we lose track of time. We sleep in a little longer and later than usual. We don’t roll. We stay respectively on our sides of the bed and awake refreshed, ready to tackle the day. Not complaining about body aches or leg or foot cramps endured from a restless night of sleep. It’s the one mattress that takes our breath away.

So, “how did you sleep?”

“Like a log,” I always say.

“Me too,” he says. “We have to get a new mattress.”

In reality, it’ll be a while when other obligations settle down. Meanwhile, it’s back to the dip in the bed.

Now with our arms and legs intertwined together, we share the day’s ‘what ifs’ and ‘did you know(s)’ plus a few tickling giggles.

“Is the door locked and the lights off?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Did you find your glasses?”

“Not yet?”

“Did you look in the bathroom or the side table?”

“No, but I will in the morning.”

“Also, will you turn on the washer before you leave? It's ready.”

“Okay,” he whispers, half asleep because I’ve crawled in late closer to the morning.

“Last thing, did you know that Toto owns part of the Mercedes F1 team?”

He’s surprised that I’m sharing an F1 fact. That’s impressive, I know, brownie points for me.

As if on cue: our embrace tightens as we snuggle into each other deep under the covers while holding hands in the dip of the bed.