When I was 2 your bed was a challenge,
You being the prize to be won at the end.
I would climb my own Everest when you called my name;
My chubby arms waving, reaching up to the sky.
Once I had finally reached the summit, you would draw me close and hold me like a life jacket.
When I was 9 yours was my sickbed,
And I loved how warm your heart made the sheets
And how they smelt of your natural perfume.
Until of course that was masked by my vomit.
Once I was better, I would wish I were ill again so that I could stay tucked in just a while longer.
When I was 15 your bed became a sanctuary for one,
The unerring place for your self-prescribed bed rest.
I tried to crawl in as I had done before
But the sheets had transformed to ice and the pillows stuffed with nails.
Your bed seemed more prodigious since you had become so small.
When I was 18 another took his place in your bed
And whilst I longed to be close to you again,
I did not wish to lie between two strangers.
So instead I found comfort in my own bed,
Sonething that all must ultimately learn to do.