THE BED WHERE TWO GENERATIONS SLEPT

My wood groans beneath the weight of years, the song of a thousand nights. I am a bed, yet I am a keeper of stories, a witness to a family's drama unfolding in silence. I am a stage where two generations have played out their lives, and the lines they have left on me are etched deep in my heart.

I remember my first tenants: a young couple, full of the boundless energy of youth. They were my designers, the first to rest their heads upon me. Their sleep was a soft, contented thing, full of hushed dreams and promises for tomorrow. I held their secrets in my springs—the gentle touch of a hand in the dark, the laughter at the stupid joke, the quiet comfort of a body beside after a bad day. The bed sagged in the middle, testament to their closeness. Their love was something tangible, a warm blanket that rested on me every night.

And then the children arrived. Their slumber was a different song, a restless, dynamic orchestra of kicks and turns, of small arms reaching toward me in the night. I was a playground for their imagination, a ship navigating turbulent seas, a fortress against monsters that were not there. I remember the sticky fingerprints on my headboard, the cookies by which they ate through my pillows, the soft rhythm of a child's breathing, a guarantee of life in its most fragile. Their imaginations were loud and rich, superheroes and fantasy creatures, a far cry from their parents' muted imaginations. Remnants of their childhood still cling to my surface, a small, stubborn kink from a toy that had been left behind, a crayon scratch on the underside.

I am now a bed for another generation. The kids have come of age and departed, their lives now lived on other stages. The young couple, now elderly, still lies here, but their sleep is a lighter, more tenuous one, breached by the soft creak of a weary body. The space between them has widened, an empty gap where a child's body once lay. They no longer whisper their dreams, but memories, a shared past now a faint echo. There are still the tales, of course, the echoes of their laughter and their children's aspirations, but they are a gentler chorus now. The bed is no longer a portrait of an abundant future but a testament to a rich and lived life. I hold the imprint of a family, a legacy of sleep, of love, of life. I wait for the next generation to lay their head upon me and begin their story.