Three Square Pillows

Three square pillows all bearing a distinct clean hem line, rest on the made bed. Two, charcoal gray. One, oatmeal. All the same linen-cotton blend. They bear a smooth wooden button, just a little smaller than the width of a doorknob.

The oatmeal separates the grays and they all turn a hair toward the doorway. Not particularly soft to the touch to invite a nap. They are purely for visual pleasure. They say, this bed is restored to the unslept-in state. And the sleeper of this domain has this part of her life put together. To a person who thinks throwing a disheveled sheet and comforter over sleeping pillows is enough to call a bed made, who looks at my three perfectly placed pillows and thinks, “What is the point? For godsake, she lives alone! Who is she doing this for!”  I say,

Every time I walk into this room, I feel the corners of my mouth go up. My shoulers release a small bit of holding. The rest of the house can be lived in, or subject to the mess from sticky grandchildren’s fingers, and endless tumbleweeds of dog hair, and dirt from dog paws. 

The exposed, cracked drywall around the edges of the walls of my home can and will go another day without the trim being painted and nailed back into their proper places. My eyes will take in the straight line of the comforter from the head of the bed to the foot. The lush, linen sheet I know is tucked in, because I can’t see it, and my three perfect pillows, looking at me. Peace will cascade through my veins, into my soul. Because this part of my life is put together.