Pete and I have a big bed. Well, actually, it’s a big mattress. It’s the one thing we purchased as newlyweds that we still use every single day. Well, night mostly. It’s king size, stretch-out-your-arms-and-legs-and-still-can’t-tell-there’s-someone-else-in-the-bed big.
It’s delicious. I miss that bed every time we’re on the road. I whisper sweet nothings to that mattress. It’s my very favorite place in the house.
This weekend we were away. Away from Virginia, 112 degree weather and our mattress.
Then this thing happened. When Pete and I tumbled into bed at night in the various guest rooms where we stayed, our feet touched.
His are always warm. Mine are always cold. It works out well for me. We curled up cupped under the covers and deep in each others’ personal space. We were too tired and full of the faces and memories and rich, sweet family moments of the day to talk much. But we lay there, back to belly and arms wrapped around the middle and soaked in the closeness.
It was coming home without being home.
And it got me thinking. And wondering. That perhaps the smaller the marriage bed the better.
What’s your experience on this one?