tale of two beds

Intimacy is not instant. This I realize while lying on the bed my mother gave me as an advanced wedding present yesterday. I spent my first night on it drifting in and out of sleep, feeling strange, disoriented, awkward. It's as if I'm in a different room in a different house in a different country.

The new bed is an elegant 54x74 Malaysian masterpiece that comes with a red Uratex foam, a cushioned headboard, and two drawers underneath. It cost my mom around 12 grand. You can call her a lot of things - conservative, old-fashioned, a Willie Revillame fan - but cheapskate isn't one of them. And since we're not really a well-to-do family, her intention is something I am very grateful of more than the actual gift. I'll be sleeping on my mother's love every night.

But I'm going to miss my old bed. It had served its purpose for 30 years, pre-dating me by three. Mom said it was the first thing she bought with her first paycheck. When I came to her life she handed it to me, and it became my cradle ever since. I don't even know what brand it is; all I know is I've been sleeping and banging away and playing and jumping up and down on it from as far as I can remember. So it was special. Sadly, however, age and abuse had turned it into a disemboweled wreck. That, plus the fact that a wife will be moving in on December, left us with no choice but to consign it to our bodega, the graveyard of forgotten things.