Making It Mine Again

My mom slept on the fold-out sofa the last two years of her life. She claimed it was more comfortable for her than a real bed, and she said that since she got up and down all night long, she would just be disturbing Dad. When she went into the hospital, my sister and I folded the couch up, but decided to sleep in the living room anyway, on an air mattress. It helped us feel close to her. We've slept on that mattress every night since.

Yesterday I made my bed. Mattress pad, sheets, two blankets, a heated blanket, and my comforter. (Yes, I live in Texas, but what can I say? I get cold easily, and besides that my bed is next to two large picture windows. Not to mention it allows me to sleep as close to naked as possible without being cold.) Crawling into bed last night felt...odd. It was like sleeping in a distant relative's spare room. It's familiar enough to allow you to sleep, but ultimately foreign because you haven't spent much time there. It was nice to feel the weight of real bedding on top of me, instead of two blankets and a heated blanket; at the same time, the crowded comfort of another sleeping person and two spoiled dogs was missing.

After two months of practically living in a hospital room, and a month of living everywhere in my house but my room, I'm finally moving back in. I'm not sure yet how I feel about it.