I was the only girl in my family, so I was the outlet for anything feminine for my mom. Decorating. Shopping. Clothes. Whatever. And that's why I grew up with a beautiful canopy bed. Dark wood. Yellow and white canopy, bedspread, and pillow sham. It was beautiful. With or without the canopy, it was the only bed I used from the time I was four until I got married.
When we first got married we tried using his twin mattresses and my twin mattresses to make a bed on the floor. That didn't work out very well so we ended up buying some very used queen mattresses (kind of gross now that I think about it). We were grateful for them, even on the floor.
Through the years we got a frame, a headboard, new mattresses, and eventually a big beautiful bed.
This bed was glorious! Queen size mattresses, but the bed itself was larger than a king size. I remember when we saw it on the showroom floor. Dark red wood. Very regal. Throne-like. Imperial. I liked it; my husband loved it. Then we got it home and realized our bedroom was no where near as big as a showroom floor. It fit, but there wasn't much room to spare.
It kind of became an albatross around my neck over the years. But my husband still loved it so we kept it and just tried to arrange the room around it.
A few years ago when we decided we needed separate rooms, I wanted him to have that bed. But his room is in the basement and there is just no way it would fit. So I kept the bed I didn't really like because it seemed the practical thing to do.
And then I finally came to a place where I was ready to be true to myself, practical or not. I didn't want the bed. I still wanted to use my queen mattresses, but wanted something much less gaudy. Something you could barely tell was there. And I remembered an old bed in my parents' basement. My bed. My first bed. The one before the canopy bed.
It's iron, painted white. Chipped. It was a full-size when I had it as a small child. At some point it had been given to a neighbor who promised to give my parents first dibs if they ever got rid of it. A few years ago they were ready and contacted my mom. She said she'd love to have it back. And it turns out that they'd altered it so it was now queen size.
My parents used it for a while in a spare room, for when family visited. But they have since downsized and didn't have a place for it. It was just being stored.
My mom was thrilled when I asked for it. I think it belonged to a great-aunt or something (the story is debated). And it's perfect. A supportive iron frame connected to a sparse, white iron headboard and footboard. Almost invisible in the room. And I recently acquired a chenille bedspread similar to the one I remember stroking as I lay on it as a child. It brings me tender joy every time I see it.
Fortuitous, destiny, divine intervention. However it came to be, I'm just glad to have my bed back.