My bed

(*Note: written on Monday)

My bed in Culiacán is a twin bed that slides around on the boxed springs.  The sheets are like 100 thread count or less and the elastic, even though I just bought them in September, is already giving out and they don’t fit well on the bed.  The sheets are slightly reminiscent of the balled up rosy ones or Raggedy Ann and Andy ones I had as a little girl.  I loved them.  Even when I went through my Lion King stage and got new sheets, I always preferred the thin-enough-you-can-read-through-them ones.  Now that’s not the case.  I prefer my silky sheets from home. Often in my Mexican life, I wake up to a very jumbled bed.

It’s not the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in (because mine in Nashville is), but it is my bed.  No I didn’t buy it.  It was here in the “guest bedroom” (see Patrick, even Mexican older brothers lose their rooms to other functions when they grow up and leave the house) long before I got here, but it’s mine. 

The bed at Mabel’s was a king size.  It still didn’t compete with my wonderbed at home, but it was comfortable enough that Mabel slept in it every time I left the house. 

I’d take this twin bed over that bed any day.  I never felt that was my bed.

Back to the point.  Getting back from Cosalá, I was tired and completely worn out mentally and physically form a week of travel with a family, by myself, and with a large group of (sometimes annoying-see previous entry) Mexicans. 

Putting my head down on my pillow (that goes with me to whichever bed in the world I happen to fall upon at night- always) on that scratchy, mal-adjusted sheet was heavenly.  I was home.