Last summer, I got a new bed. A platform frame with a stylish gray headboard, but most importantly, a new mattress. Brand new, fresh-out-the-box new, not just new to me. Never been slept on by a dead relative (thanks, Mamaw) or a stranger (thanks, Craigslist). No exes have been in this bed. No men have been gross in this bed. It is firm and breathable and supportive. There are sheets, clean sheets, nice sheets—a deep blue. There is a new comforter encased in a duvet cover with an arrow pattern. There are matching shams on my new pillows and dark blue throw. These are mine, all mine.
Nearly every day, I make this bed, and it sets my day in motion. It makes me feel a little better to see this tidy thing in my life. I feel a little further away from who I used to be and a little more like who I am now.